


turning saints into the sea

by lacecat



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Multi, Mutual Pining, also titled 'the long history behind the invention of boston marriages', lesbian james flint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-06
Updated: 2017-12-06
Packaged: 2019-02-10 20:13:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 86,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12919416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lacecat/pseuds/lacecat
Summary: They say she arrived in Nassau during a hurricane. They say that she brought with her a priest she had kidnapped to father her children, whom she then turned into storms to guide the direction of her ship. They say she has sworn to kill as many men on this Earth as she could, that she bathes in the blood of young children ripped from their mother’s breasts to attain immortality, doomed to serve the seas forever in return.In reality, Silver has seen Flint conjure exactly zero storm-like offspring, but she does know how she speaks with the sort of conviction that if she were a man, they would write books about her. There’s a stiffness to her posture that speaks of someone who might better be found in a London parlor rather than a dusty brothel in the Bahamas, and yet she has a fierce temper that rivals any man's on the island, a dangerous look about her like the air rippling over fire.





	1. the urca de lima schedule

**Author's Note:**

> IVE DONE THE THING  
> o h b o y  
> (if you choose to make it through this thing i love you no take backs)
> 
> s/o of course to all of you who had to listened to me complain about lesbian james flint (extra love)
> 
> \---
> 
> there is some fabulous art to go with this as well!  
> [•this incredible drawing of silver by @theartbluebox](http://theartbluebox.tumblr.com/post/168203290302/my-piece-for-the-black-sails-big-bang-challenge)  
> [•this stunning art of flint and silver by @krisnkrams](http://krimsnkramsart.tumblr.com/post/168251337572/my-first-contribution-for-the-black-sails-big)

**NEW PROVIDENCE ISLAND**

**1715**

 

In the middle of the town square, a crowd has gathered. Silver can hear the sounds of the murmuring even from inside the brothel, trickling up. Such crowds are not unusual, usually drunk brawling men who have gathered an audience - but just when it reaches a level of sound to be a cause for worry, someone appears in the doorway, and Silver glances up.

 

It’s one of Max’s girls - a new one, Silver hasn’t caught her name yet -  who tells them of the duel out in the square. The girl leaves to rejoin some of the others watching from the balcony outside, the closed door muffling the sounds once again.

 

After a moment, Max stands up, and Silver shuts her book.

 

As they make their way down the stairs and outside the brothel, Silver sees Idelle perched by the entrance, her arms crossed. “What is it now?” Silver asks as they approach the other woman. “Some insult to another’s mother?”

 

“It’s Captain Flint,” Idelle says, her eyes darting over Silver’s shoulder to look at Max. “Against one of the Walrus men. Flint claims he stole something from their haul before it got in the books.”

 

“You think he actually stole something?” Silver asks, and Idelle’s eyes go back to her.

 

“Doesn’t matter. Flint’s mad to challenge him to a duel,” Idelle says, eyes wide like she can’t believe she has to explain this to Silver. “Singleton’s been angling to take over the Walrus for months now, he’ll be determined to win.”

 

“Hm,” Silver says, and she glances sideways as Max as they leave Idelle to join the crowd in the square. Some of the men give them second glances as they join the group, but their attentions are more caught by the promise of a fight, beady eyes excited by the prospect of violence to occur.

 

Over their heads, Silver can see the two figures standing in the middle of the space that’s been cleared out. Singleton’s bald head glints in the sun as he hands a pistol to a nearby man, picking up a sword.

 

Across from him, the captain takes off her coat, draping it carefully over a nearby barrel. Her red hair is tied tightly into a knot at the nape of her neck, and she balances a sword in her hands for a moment before turning back to Singleton.

 

Silver has never met the woman, but she’s heard the stories, same as anyone who’s set foot in Nassau. Captain Flint’s voice is low but clear, her words cutting right through the crowd’s muttering when she says, “No quarter, Mr. Singleton.”

 

“Bitch,” Singleton replies, his sword already in hand, and there’s a glimpse of a sneer across the captain’s face, before one of the men to the side whistles, and Flint lunges forward.

 

The fight is brutal, to say the least. Singleton gets in a lucky blow, slicing across Flint’s torso. But the captain doesn’t make a sound, even as she puts her other hand reflexively on the wound before advancing again, Singleton forced back by the ferocity of her blows.

 

Silver’s never held a sword in her life, but she recognizes that Flint has talent in this particular area, as the neat, quick maneuvers of her sword causing Singleton to backtrack, even more, her footwork sure and steady even as blood continues to well through her shirt.

 

Singleton prevents Flint from cutting his throat with a well-timed parry, but the force of the blow causes them both to drop their swords. Now the man is on the attack, taking a swing at Flint with a closed fist. He’s stronger than the captain, as he forces her to duck and move around him, but Flint has an eerie sort of precision in her movements, seeming to see where he’s aiming before Silver thinks even Singleton knows.

 

He manages to hit the captain then, his fist landing with a dull thump into her side. It causes Flint to gasp, finally stumbling back, as the crowd starts shouting again, and she gets hit again in the jaw. Singleton lifts his face, a sick smirk on his face as he looks to the crowd around them, Flint wheezing in front of him.

 

Silver see his mistake in an instant. You don’t take your eyes off a woman like Flint - and that’s when Flint tackles him around the midsection, taking him to the ground.  

 

As they fall, the crowd jeers even louder, expecting the end to be near, especially when Singleton rolls them so that he can try to strangle Flint. But in his haste, he doesn’t see Flint grapple with the rock she finds nearby. Silver watches as Flint’s pale fingers curl around the stone, and she brings it up to connect with Singleton’s head, then over and over again.

 

When it’s finished, Silver watches as the captain slowly pushes the man off of her. Sometime between the first blow and now, the crowd has gone silent around them. Beside her, Max has gone still, as they watch the captain staggers upright. It’s part revulsion, part fascination that’s crawling up Silver’s throat as she looks around, seeing how no one dares to say anything lest they break the eerie silence.

 

Flint’s face is still mid-snarl, and the bloodied hair at her temples surrounds her head some unholy crown. Near her boots, Singleton’s body still twitches. Flint’s hands are covered - dripping - in blood, droplets landing on the dusty ground to either side. With her hair mostly undone now, blood splattering her face and neck, she looks like some vengeful demon come to life.

 

Silver can’t tear her eyes away from the sight.

 

Flint ignores the seeping wound on her sternum in favor of calling out to the crew in the crowd, then, all of them now mute by the sight of the woman in front of them, grinning even as she bleeds.

 

“Mr. Singleton has stolen not just any document,” Flint tells them, her voice hoarse, but no less captivating. Her teeth are red like the rest of her when she grins, says, “It is the schedule for the prize known as the Urca de Lima.”

 

The murmuring starts again, as Flint steps over the body with barely a dismissive look, her chest still heaving.

 

Singleton had, in fact, brought the paper with him into the brothel just this morning. In one of the rooms, Silver had put on a wide-eyed expression of innocent awe as the man had boasted to her how he had taken it from right under his captain’s nose, along with a purse of coins, from some sea cook who had smuggled it away from his own captain before the Walrus had set upon them. He hadn’t known what the schedule was, but then again, he knew enough that if it was valuable enough for one man to steal, that it should be his next. Singleton had killed the cook, and no one would have been the wiser.

 

Or at least until Flint had challenged him to a duel. Maybe Singleton had expected to win, or maybe he had planned on winning the crew over to him with the promise on the paper he possessed. It wouldn’t have been hard - there’s been whispers of mutiny aboard the Walrus for weeks now, and the men would have flocked to him. Men like Singleton don’t care for as much of the process as they do the result, but in this case, Silver thinks this result was decidedly poor for him.

 

Silver inconspicuously runs a finger along the bottom of her bodice, where she can feel the folded piece of paper she had tucked in there. She had been able to lift it right out of Singleton’s pocket while he was groaning underneath her, replacing it with a blank paper, under the guise of getting them some more rum.  Silver knew Singleton wouldn’t have bothered to check the paper, not that he had the chance to before Flint had challenged him right outside.

 

She had hoped for some naval intelligence, or maybe a new shipping route - but an honest to God ship full of treasure? It was the sort of miracle that she hadn’t dared dream she would stumble across.

 

Only now, the man from whom she had stolen the paper is dead, and his murderer is standing above his body, her fists clenched, no doubt ready to reclaim it. “I’m going to make you princes of the New World,” Flint says, her hair ablaze around her.  

 

Silver knows, without a doubt, that Flint sees herself as queen. She watches as Flint looks between the crowd, a look of utter defiance on her face, her profile sharpened by the harsh afternoon light.

 

She might be a queen, but she still bleeds like any man - and Silver would know, even royalty has some sort of weakness.

 

From beside her, Max makes a sound. “The Urca de Lima,” she says. “With that sort of money, that woman could do anything she desired. Buy any future for her, for her crew.”

 

“She knows that,” Silver says, and she can feel Max look at her, but she doesn’t turn, even as the crowd starts to thin out when Flint orders her crew to disperse. Some of them make their way over to the brothel, but Silver isn’t going back quite yet.

 

They watch as Flint runs her hands over Singleton’s pockets. While she does take the gold from his trousers, she’s really patting him down for the page, Silver knows. Despite being unable to see her face, Silver can see the exact moment that Flint realizes the page isn’t there among the papers she has pulled out. Her shoulders tightening almost imperceptibly, as her head tilts ever so slightly to the side, as if to see who is watching.

 

Flint looks around, and when her head moves towards them, for a moment it looks like she’s looking directly at Silver. Silver feels a shiver race up her spine, as Max touches her wrist again as if to ask her what’s wrong.

 

She ducks her head instead, and pulls away from Max, passing through the remnants of the crowd to head back to the brothel. Flint can’t announce that she doesn’t have the page, not after all of that, but Silver doesn’t intend to be there when Flint starts to make inquiries on its location.

 

Back in the brothel, Silver gets to the bar, pours herself a drink and throws it back in one gulp. Around her, the girls start to chatter with the several customers, as if they hadn’t just witnessed a man being brained right outside. But whores are known for their adaptability after all.

 

Max comes up behind her, lightly touches her hip. Silver turns to face her, and something in her expression must show, for when Silver continues up the stairs, Max follows her without a single question.

 

Silver doesn’t stop until she’s made her way to one of the rooms. In private, she lets herself breathe deeply, her mind whirling. The schedule she has far more value than she could have hoped, but now she recognizes the danger inherent in such a prize, as visible as the blood on Flint’s hands.

 

She needs to act, and do so quickly before anyone realizes she’s the one who took the page.

 

Max closes the door behind them, and she sends a questioning look in her direction. “What is it?”

 

“Flint doesn’t have the schedule for the Urca de Lima,” Silver says, and she reaches into the torn hem of her bodice, as Max’s eyes go round.

 

“You didn’t,” Max says, realization dawning, as Silver takes out the piece of paper. “ _Silver_.”

 

“I’ve just created a future,” Silver says, half to herself, her fingers brushing against the folded edge, over and over again like it’s a medallion, that she can memorize each crease by touch.

 

  * ••



 

Eventually, her crew leaves, one or two of them kicking Singleton’s body as they go.

 

Flint doesn’t bother wiping the blood off her hands, using it to her advantage to add to the image of her glowering at some of the slower-moving ones, who speed up under her gaze.

 

The schedule wasn’t on Singleton’s body. She had put all of her fucking leverage into that piece of paper - and now it was nowhere to be found. Flint keeps her face very carefully still, watching as a fly lands on Singleton’s bald head, her mind working.

 

“Are you hurt?” The voice comes from behind her, and Flint turns around to see Eleanor, looking with a grimace down at the cut on her chest, that Flint had nearly forgotten about.

 

“It’s fine,” Flint says curtly, uncurling her fingers at her side. The cut stings, but it’s starting to clot by now -  as long as Flint doesn’t move her arm too much, she’ll manage. She’s had worse. “Where’s Mr. Gates?”

 

“Here,” Gates says, stepping out from behind her. His face is serious as he looks at Flint up and down, holding her leather coat out to her. “We need to talk.”

 

Flint nods, once, accepting the coat and shrugging it on, gritting her teeth as the motion pulls at the wound once again on her chest. Eleanor’s already heading back to the tavern, and Gates follows her.

 

Eleanor’s office is above the main room of the tavern. At the top of the stairs leading to the upper level, Eleanor holds the door open for the two of them to walk in, then closes it firmly.

 

Flint wants nothing more than to sit down on one of the chairs - or even the lounge - tucked into the corner of the room, but for this, she must stand. She lets the silence extend for a few beats before speaking. “The schedule wasn’t on Singleton.”

 

Across the room, Gates stops in his tracks. “What did you just say?”

 

Eleanor remains silent.

 

“It wasn’t on him,” Flint repeats, as Gates turns to face her, his face slack. “I checked.”

 

“You’re going to have to pardon me when I ask _are you absolutely sure_ -”

 

“Hal,” Flint says, and she can hear Eleanor shift without looking at her. “Someone must have taken it from him.”

 

“Or he never stole it in the first place, and you’ve just executed an innocent man - “

 

“He was going to mutiny,” Flint points out. “It would have ended in the same manner, either way - ”

 

“You don’t just resolve a mutiny by _killing a man in the street_ ,” Gates says angrily. “If he had Parrish’s schedule on him, you could have argued that, but you have _nothing_ \- “

 

“I know he took it,” Flint says, letting a edge into her voice. “It’s just a matter of who took it from him, now.”

 

Her quartermaster lets out a long breath.  “Jesus fucking Christ.”

 

“We’ll find out who it is,” Flint says insistently, and she lets herself rest some of her weight on the desk. “This is a mere setback. We have the rest of the captain’s log, we’ll just need to find out who he gave it to.”

 

“Or who stole it from him, you mean,” Gates says, looking more and more frustrated. “Because if it’s that, then we’ll never see the damn thing ever again-”

 

“Keep your voice down,” Flint orders harshly, with a glance over at Eleanor. “Unless you’d like to explain to those men out there just why we can’t leave Nassau yet. We’ll find it.”

 

“You just killed one of the most influential men on this crew and _lied_ about the schedule in front a crowd of witnesses!”

 

“And you’re the quartermaster who just let it slide,” Flint snaps back, feeling a headache start to come on. “We’re both in this now. We’ll find the schedule.”

 

“And you?” Gates says then, turning to face Eleanor, who has been uncharacteristically silent. “What do you think of all this?”

 

“Give us the room, Mr. Gates,” Eleanor says, her eyes on Flint. Gates glances at Flint, who nods, straightening up despite the ache in her shoulder at the movement.

 

“I’ll poke around, see what Singleton was up to,” Gates says then, with another long look at Flint before he departs.

 

The door closes again, but if anything, Eleanor’ shoulders grow even tenser. “You know Singleton has the page from Parrish’s ship?”

 

“Hal needs to believe that it’s possible,” Flint tells her. “Either way, Parrish’s log was missing the crucial page. With that page, we’ll know where to find the Urca’s weak point, when the warship is no longer an issue - "

 

There’s a knock on the door. It creaks upon to reveal a girl, who is holding a basin and a towel. “Ma’am, you sent for these?”

 

“Set them on that table,” Eleanor directs, and she glances back at Flint. “You look like a fucking mess, in case you haven’t realized.”

 

Flint complies. She takes a step towards the basin, the girl casting her a somewhat horrified look - probably justified, given she’s covered in drying blood and she can feel a bruise on her jaw swelling - as she leaves them.

 

She splashes the water on her face, uses the towel to scrub off most of the blood. The water in the basin turns murky, as Flint winces when she uses the towel on the tender part of her face. Eleanor doesn’t say anything, not until Flint dries off her face, runs a hand through her hair.

 

Her arms are crossed when Flint turns back.

 

Flint says, “You’re angry.”

 

“I’m beyond angry,” Eleanor snaps. “You just killed one of your crew, and you lied about it in front of all of them out there.”

 

“I’m not lying about the schedule,” Flint says. “He did steal it from the haul.”

 

“Right now, you have nothing. We have nothing,” Eleanor bites out, then she visibly pulls herself back and goes over to pick up one of the bottles on the table behind the desk. “If I didn’t think we could fix this, I’d push you into the fucking sea myself right now. You’ve somehow managed to make your crew mistrust you even more.”

 

Flint lets herself go to the couch by the desk, and tries not to collapse too heavily as she sits. “It will pass,” she says, sounding weary even to her own ears. “This is just a complication.”

 

“You and your fucking complications,” Eleanor bites. There’s a pause after she uncorks the bottle.

 

“When you first came to Nassau,” the woman says without turning around, “I saw not just another woman trying to clutch onto a small measure of power. You had a vision, and you were intent on seeing it done. That set you apart from the men on this island. That’s why I knew I could trust you, all these years, that your intentions aligned with mine.”

 

The first time she had met Eleanor Guthrie, Flint remembers thinking that she was so painfully young for her position, the girl who had sat across from her in a too-big chair and yet had spoken with a sort of steel in her voice that Flint had heard from few men back in England. She has since grown into that chair, in many ways, and if Flint wasn’t so tired she’d smile at the thought.

 

For a moment, she remembers how when she had first seen the pale blonde hair - but also the conviction in the placement her palms, facing up on the worn surface of the desk - she had been so strongly reminded of another woman, a long time ago and an ocean away. But now, Flint tamps down the memory that threatens to surge up now, and she asks,  “Do you doubt my intentions?”

 

“Your conviction remains the same,” Eleanor says finally, “But I must wonder if it’s the same vision that you’ve chosen to share with the rest of us.”

 

They fall into a silence. Flint watches as Eleanor slowly picks up the bottle, pours it out into two of the cups then before setting the rum back down without a word.

 

Outside, Flint can hear some of the merchants calling out to passersby, the faint cry of seagulls, the conversations that are filtering up through the window. The sounds are layered with the low rumble of voices in the tavern downstairs, the clinking of mugs and the occasional laughter coming up through the floorboards. Flint shifts, twisting a ring around her thumb while she waits for Eleanor.

 

There’s a crease in her brow when Eleanor finally turns around, but she doesn’t look like she’s going to toss Flint into the ocean anymore, either. “I have a suspicion of where we’re to find the schedule,” Eleanor says, eyes sharp on Flint. “You’ve been at sea for a few weeks. Singleton was bound to go the brothel the moment you made anchor.”

 

“You think he met with someone there?”

 

“I think he _met_ with someone at a whorehouse, yes,” Eleanor says dryly, and she crosses the room. “One of the girls could’ve picked it from him. Mr. Gates might be able to confirm who, even.”

 

“You think one of the girls somehow knew Singleton had the schedule, managed to get it from him and hide in the background as he challenged me?” Flint says, accepting a tankard from her. “One of them orchestrated all of that?”

 

“I’m not sure you’ve ever set foot in that place if you’re seriously asking me that question,” Eleanor says dryly, and she sits down beside Flint on the settee. “Men who go in there, they always lose something more than a few pieces of gold.”

 

Flint takes a drink, as Eleanor says, “I can ask Max.”

 

“You think she’ll sell out one of her girls just like that?”

 

“I think she’ll do me a favor, yes,” Eleanor says sharply, and Flint notes how her mouth thins. She’s met the woman only a handful of times, but Flint knows Eleanor, and she knows exactly what kind of woman she must be if she’s got claws in Eleanor like this. “It will be in her best interests to keep up the illusion that her business is one that does not have such ulterior motives.”

 

“Everyone on this island has ulterior motives, and one must be a fool to think otherwise,” Flint says. “Do you truly want to weigh your past with her against five million pieces of gold?”

 

“You wouldn’t understand,” Eleanor answers sharply. “I know you don’t like her - “

 

“I don’t trust her,” Flint says flatly. She lets the neither should you remain implicit.

 

“Well she doesn’t trust you very much either, so luckily, you both have me to negotiate,” Eleanor throws back. “Max values her relationship with me - don’t look at me like that, our _professional_ relationship.”

 

Flint takes another long gulp of rum as Eleanor adds, “Gates is bound to find out that he went there. He’s probably waiting for you there now.” She raises an eyebrow, watching Flint drink. “Maybe you’ll even find some other benefit of a visit.”

 

Flint coughs, as Eleanor continues, “I doubt that Puritan husband of yours keeps you warm at night - “

 

“ _Eleanor_ ,” Flint warns, setting down the empty tankard. “We will not speak of this.”

 

“Your wellbeing is in my best interests,” Eleanor says, looking rather amused, but then she says, “You should get that looked at before you stain my cushion with your blood.”

 

Flint glances down, sees the fabric around the tear in her shirt going red again. “I’ll send Gates with any news.” She rises, setting the tankard down, and absolutely doesn’t make to grab the back of the settee as a sudden dizzy spell overcomes her.

 

“Don’t fall off your horse,” Eleanor says, when the dark spots have receded enough from her vision that Flint can move again. “And for fuck’s sake, don’t let it slip that you don’t have the schedule. Even I won’t be able to save you from a mutiny at this rate.”

 

Flint closes the door in response. If she glares a little more at the men she passes by on her way out of the tavern, it’s because she’s nearly died today.

 

Gates is waiting across the street, and as Flint meets him, he says, “Singleton visited the brothel. Spent time with one of the whores before you met him out here.”

 

Flint glances over to the place, where a man is staggering out right now, his shirt disheveled. “Is that so?”

 

“One of them could try to be selling it now,” Gates says. “Let me go in - “

 

“Get one of the men, listen around for any chatter about the map,” Flint orders, and Gates’s mouth closes. “I’ll be back by dawn.”

 

He looks at her for a long moment. “Get that cut looked at,” Gates says finally. “And tell him hello for me.”

 

Flint nods, and Gates gives her another look before they part.

 

  * ••



 

The sand works its way through her shoes, and Silver can feel the grains between her toes nearly as soon as she steps foot on the beach.

 

With the new information on what exactly the schedule is, and the very public fight between Flint and Singleton, she can’t just go advertising she has the page. Her regulars are all either men from the town - not brave enough to risk Flint’s ire - or low-level pirate crew who aren’t worth her time.

 

She needs someone who would be willing to cross Flint - and by extension, Eleanor Guthrie - in this way, and she knows who she needs to talk to in order to get there.

 

She’ll have to be careful, as Silver is reminded when she makes her way to the Ranger camp. The men she passes give her double looks - usually, whores don’t make their way down to the beach during the day, and certainly not by themselves.  

 

Silver catches the gaze of one of the men as she approaches a large-looking tent. “I was wondering where I might find your quartermaster,” Silver says, putting a smile on her face.

 

The man casts a look down at her. “In there,” he says, nudging his chin towards the tent. Silver gives him another sweet smile, and she pushes open the flap to enter the tent.

 

“Jack Rackham,” Silver says, letting the flap close behind her. Luckily, his guard dog isn’t in there, so she crosses the room without having a knife at her neck.

 

“Can I help you?” Rackham says from where he’s sitting at small desk, quill dripping ink onto a page as he turns to stare at her.

 

“I think you might,” Silver purrs, and she puts an arm around the man’s neck before smoothly sliding into his lap. “Do you know me?”

 

Jack Rackham looks up at her, clearly bemused at her presence. “Clearly, I have somehow forgotten you.”

 

“I have a proposition for you,” Silver says, shifting on his lap. From what she knows of Rackham, he’s not one of the most - directly - dangerous men on this beach, but she keeps her weight light, just in case this goes downhill and she needs to flee. “One that you will surely not forget.”

 

“Apologies, but I’m afraid I’m not interested,” Rackham says, and he moves as though to push her off, but Silver catches his arm before he can do so.

 

“Not of that sort, Mr. Rackham,” she says smoothly. “I believe your captain has some interest in an acquisition I possess knowledge about.”

 

“No offense intended, madame, but I doubt anything even a whore as pretty as yourself might have anything - “

 

“I know where to get the Urca schedule,” Silver tells him, and Rackham stills. “How pretty am I compared to five million pieces of gold?”

 

Rackham’s eyes glint, and Silver knows she has him.

 

“If you’re telling the truth - “

 

“I am,” Silver says, leaning in, and Rackham’s eyes are fixed on her. “But first, I have some conditions, ones that will benefit both of us.”

 

  * ••



 

The sun starts to disappear beyond the horizon as the horse takes her into the interior. The air is still heavy and sticky, but she feels cold down to the bone, as night envelops the island, the sun swallowed by the hills as shes moves through.

 

Like every time she comes here, she sees the house in the distance long before her approach is noticed. She slows the horse down, stopping at one of the last hills between her and the white shutters - ones Flint knows are slightly uneven when she had put them up, painted them last summer.

 

The horse scuffs its hoof in the dirt, waiting, while Flint drinks in the sight of the house. It looks peaceful, untempered by the world outside. There’s a hint of movement behind one of the windows, a shadow passing behind the glass, its inhabitant unaware of the pirate staring down at it.

 

The ache in her chest increases, but she doesn’t think it has anything to do with the wound. Flint gathers the reins once again, and both she and the horse finally approach the house.

 

As she ties the reins to the post out front, Flint can hear the door creak open. She glances up, just as Martin appears in the open door.

 

He’s in a long white sleeping shirt, barefoot, his hair tousled. She would think she roused him out of bed, if only there weren’t candles still burning bright inside behind him, or the book that’s in his hand, his finger wedged in between the pages.

 

She knows what he sees in return. The bruise must be vivid on her jaw now, and there’s the blood that’s dried on her shirt, mud and sweat and anything else covering her like a second skin. Flint lets the reins slip from her hands, and his eyes track the movement.

 

“I’ll put on water,” Martin says after a long moment, and he turns to go back into the house. Flint follows him, and the warm, earthy smell of the house makes her stop in the doorway for a moment, feeling as though she can breathe once again.

 

She watches as Martin bends over to pick up the kettle, fiddling with the top before going over to the hearth. Flint lets herself slide to the ground, breathing deeply in, not wanting to let a single comforting breath back out.

 

She isn’t sure precisely when her eyes drifted shut, but suddenly Martin is kneeling in front of her, his fingers gently opening her shirt as she forces her eyelids open once again. “You should’ve come back earlier,” he says, his dark eyes flitting over her face once again before he carefully pulls the shirt from where it was sticking to her skin. There’s a damp cloth in his hand, dripping water onto the top of her thigh. Flint smiles a little despite herself, watching the line between his eyebrows furrow as he brushes over her wound with the cloth ever so gently.

 

“It’s not too bad,” Flint says, but then she’s forced to grit her teeth as Martin moves the cloth over the deepest part of the wound. She tries not to wince, but he draws back, instead moving to touch her face with his other hand.

 

“Not too bad,” Martin repeats, under his breath. Flint lifts her chin as he runs a thumb along her jaw, forgetting how much she craves the touch. “What happened?”

 

“One of the crew challenged me,” she says, and Martin dabs the cloth on her jaw, despite the fact Flint had already cleaned her face earlier. “I’m fine.”

 

Martin’s hands drops, and Flint misses the warmth. He rises then, offering an arm to Flint. “Go to the bedroom,” Martin says, as Flint readjusts her equilibrium, pulling herself up with his help. “Lie down. I’ll be cross with you in the morning.”

 

Flint nods. They both look at each other for a moment, until a small smile comes over his face. Flint puts her hands on his shoulders in response, and Martin bows his head a little when she lifts her face to press a kiss to his forehead, her lips touching his skin just over the furrow in his brow.

 

“Go,” he tells her, touching her side gently, and she complies. Flint makes it to the bedroom and she collapses on the bed. Even though the smell of soap - something powdery, just a little sweet - that Martin makes himself is strong, she can still make out the faint scent of the sea, present even all the way out here as she toes off her boots, letting them fall off the side of the bed. Flint thinks that sometimes, even if she were to travel for days and days on end, moving away from the sea with every step, she would just pause for a moment, and then the ocean would already be lapping at her heels once more, the waves forever chasing her.

 

She tries to stay awake for Martin to return, but the comfort of being as close to home as she can manage is too tempting. She drifts off, thinking about the taste of sea salt. She doesn’t dream.

 

  * ••



  


Flint wakes up to a soft touch on her shoulder.

 

“I would let you sleep, but I reasoned that you’ve made promises to be elsewhere,” Martin says, and she opens her eyes. He’s lying next to her, a book in his lap. Flint recognizes the cover, the thin gold lines delicately etched onto the spine. It’s what she had put in her bag last night, a gift for him that he must have found.

 

Flint sits up, rubs a hand over her face. “I told Gates I’d be back by dawn.”

 

“You have a few hours yet,” Martin says, closing the book. “Your horse nearly escaped soon after you came in, by the way. Luckily, he still happens to like me.”

 

“You’ve always been the likeable one.” Flint looks down at the book. “Is it any good?” she asks, nudging him a little. “Found it on our last prize. I’m sorry it’s in Spanish.”

 

Martin’s mouth is in a tight line when she glances up at him. “That’s not what I want you to be sorry about,” he says.

 

“I know,” Flint says. “I’m sorry.”

 

Martin looks at her a moment longer, before swinging his legs over the far side of the bed. “I’ll find you a new shirt while I’m at it,” he says, which is as close to forgiveness as she thinks she’ll receive.

 

Flint listens to him rustling around in the house for a few minutes before rising as well. The candles have melted down low in their holders as she splashes water onto her face from a basin in the corner, before wandering out.

 

Martin’s set out bread and some dried ham by the time as Flint steps out. There’s a clean shirt lying on the back of the chair, and Flint strips without thinking of it. It’s only when Martin lets out a low oath that she remembers her back must be covered in bruises and scrapes, with new ones from the fight just blooming now.

 

“I can barely feel it,” she tries, as Martin comes up behind her. She fiddles with the material of the clean shirt, as his hand touches the back of her shoulder. She can feel him trace the ridge of raised tissue - a healed wound from a few weeks ago, received during a raid on a Dutch merchant that she realizes he wouldn’t have seen.

 

“Jesus _Christ_ ,” Martin says. “You’re not putting that back on until I find something to bandage it with.”

 

“It’s -”

 

“Let me,” Martin says, sounding nearly like he’s pleading with her. Flint swallows, putting her hands more firmly on the back of the chair, as he rips fabric from somewhere behind her. He touches her hip so that she turns to face him, keeping her gaze on a point beyond the man’s shoulder.

 

“You could have died,” Martin says, and Flint’s fingers curl on themselves as he starts to wrap the cloth around her torso. “For what, proving yourself to a crew that would turn on you just as quickly - “

 

“For a future here,” Flint says, as Martin comes around to her front, delicately lifting her arm to cover the wound. For all the conviction she manages to put into her tone, it still doesn’t make the look in his eyes go away, when she catches his gaze. “This is what we wanted. Singleton had stolen the Urca schedule.”

 

“The Urca?” he asks, his eyes sharpening as he ties another knot in the cloth. “You have it?’

 

“I’ll have it soon,” Flint says, and Martin’s mouth thins. “Some girl stole the page from Singleton. I sent Gates to find out whoever she sold it to.”

 

Martin finishes bandaging up, then helps her slide the clean shirt back on.  He doesn’t step back, as he smooths the material over her stomach, and Flint says, “This is what we’ve strove for, what we want - “

 

“What I _want_ , is you alive,” Martin says, and something turns in her chest as he meets her eye again. “That’s more important than any amount of gold in the world. You could have _died_ , and it - you barely realize that, even now.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Flint says again. She doesn’t try to argue otherwise. “When this is through - “ But even she can’t find the end to that thought, the prospect of something other than fighting, baring teeth against the world laid in front of her. Martin’s shoulders move as he exhales, and on reflex, Flint catches his hand, presses a soft kiss to the inside of his wrist.

 

He watches her with dark, sad eyes, as she squeezes his hand. “I had hoped to have more time with you,” Martin says softly. “You were gone for so long.”

 

Flint swallows. “Someday,” she says, but they both know that those words are dangerous, as easily stolen as a thought before they ever have a chance to materialize in reality.

 

Later, when she leaves the cottage, she can’t help but steal a glance in through the window. Martin is still at the table, and even though the sight is blurred through the glass pane, she can see his hands pressed on the table, the bend of his back as he stands hunched, not moving.

 

Flint has to take a moment to untwist the painful feeling in her chest before she can get back on the horse and ride away, to leave him alone like that. She steels herself, and doesn’t let herself look back again as the house grows farther away behind her.

 

  * ••



 

Silver slips back into the brothel. By now, most of the men have cleared out, either back to the beach or into one of the rooms upstairs to sleep off the alcohol that had been freely pouring earlier. She’s always liked the brothel at night - without the smell of sweat and booze to fill the air, she can take in the delicate paintings on the far wall, the way the ivy curls up like smoke in the air up the bannister.

 

Even though it’s late, she’s not surprised to see Max downstairs, waiting for her. She watches Silver close the door behind her, and she then gathers her pale robe around her more to stand, as Silver leans her weight on the door, until it closes with a soft thud.

 

“You were at the beach,” Max says.

 

“I was.”

 

The silence stretches out between them, and then Max lifts her hand. “Sit with me.”

 

From up close, Max’s dark-rimmed eyes are solemn, slightly smudged near her nose. Silver watching as Max turns to pour her a cup of rum. “You disapprove.”

 

“Of course I disapprove,” Max says, her voice taut even as her movements are smoothed, practiced, as she slides over a cup and sits back down. Max says, “This business with the gold leads to your ruin, undoubtedly, and I do not wish to see your talents cut off as such for the sake of some - prize.”

 

“You think this _prize_ is not worth that possibility?” Silver says, and she scoffs, taking a sip. “I would’ve thought that you of all people would understand the future that such a prize buys, and it would be worth the gamble.”

 

“I think you do not realize that there are situations that even you cannot escape,” Max tells her, eyes flicking up to her. “Do not think that you are immune to fate yourself. I simply do not wish to see you fall to ruin right in front of me.”

 

There are unsaid words hanging between them, their concept as heavy as the taste of rum on her tongue, so Silver eventually says, “Then why did you not go to Eleanor Guthrie? Why not tell her that I possess the schedule, have her and everyone out on that beach be rid of me and split the gold for yourselves?”

 

“I did not do it out of respect for our partnership,” Max says firmly, and Silver takes another long drink, feels the liquid burn on the way down her throat, trying to temper whatever she can feel rising in her throat. “I do it because I see you in myself, that even though you have not been here long, we have more in common than either of us would have suspected. I thought that I could convince you -”

 

“I haven’t been here long,” Silver says. “Which is why I can see what you cannot. This place is crumbling - not matter how much gold you or Eleanor Guthrie or Captain Flint pour into the sand, it will still wash away to the sea. That is where we differ. This gold, it buys me a future. If you want, I would buy your help with it - I would ask for you to take that chance with me.”

 

Max looks at her then, really looks at her, enough so that Silver has to fight not to flinch under her gaze, as they sit there. Behind her head, the candles flicker from a breeze coming in from under the door, casting flickering shadows on the two of them, and Silver has to fight so her resolve doesn’t shift too. “You and I, we are quite similar,” Max says after a long time. “Both women who came to this island under less than ideal circumstances - circumstances that you have not cared to share with me, nor I suspect anyone else, for the same reasons I keep my own private."

 

“And what do you presume to know of my circumstances?” Silver smiles, and her face feels tight as she does so. “I would think any history of mine are rather unrelated to the question of five million pieces of gold.”

 

“I don’t need to know your story to know of the consequences that it must have taken to bring you here,” Max says calmly, and Silver closes her mouth. “I know what kind of woman you are.”

 

“You don’t know,” Silver says, and she can hear how her voice hardens, sees Max's eyes reflect the light like the drink in their cups. “You don’t know who I am.”

 

Max puts her hand out, on Silver’s arm. “It’s not out of any motive that I ask you to stop this,” she says, quiet but firm. “I ask as a friend, that despite the unknown elements of your past, that you don’t do this. Let this be fixed, still - “

 

Silver pulls her arm away, and she doesn’t let the look of hurt on Max’s face dissuade her. “I’m sorry,” she says, and she can feel the distance grow. “Truly."

 

She’s grown close to Max these last few months, and even that brief amount of time has allowed some fondness to seep into their relationship.  Still, something in her chest pangs when Max says quietly, after a weighted pause, “This will not go as you see it. That, I know. I am sorry."

 

Behind Max, the candles flicker again, and grow still. Silver thinks that if she could ever believe in such a thing as fate, it would be in this moment.

 

Silver drains her cup. “Now will you tell me what you told Eleanor Guthrie?”

 

Max says, “I told her that you have the schedule.”

  
  


  * ••



 

Silver tucks the scarf more around her hair as she makes her way through the wrecks. She’ll stay there for as long as it’s dark, where no one will try to look for her. Max had let her leave the brothel, probably partly out of some kindness - as if prolonging her demise is some sort of kindness - and so Silver had fled into the night, carrying nothing but some coins, the clothes on her back, and of course, the schedule.

 

She’ll find a ship off the island come morning. Until then, she clambers alongs the rocks - her palms smarting as she avoids slipping on the sea-damp surface - making her way as far out as she can. In the distance, the sun’s light is already escaping beyond the line of the horizon, not quite risen, but the clouds low in the distance are already faintly lighter than the dark sky overhead.

 

Which is why, when Silver finds herself being slammed against one of the rock surfaces, the faint light coming from the impending dawn lets her see who it is.

 

“ _You_ -” Captain Flint says, her green eyes furiously fixed on Silver’s face. From this close, Silver can see how her nose is a little crooked, and how there are a few freckles that curve along her cheek - strangely delicate, but the thoughts go away as soon as Flint grips onto her tight enough to leave bruises. Before Silver can reach for the tiny blade she had stowed away under her bodice for exactly this purpose, Flint’s arm presses against her windpipe. “You were in the crowd that day,” the captain hisses, and Silver grapples with her arm to little avail.

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about - ” Silver gasps, and Flint’s arm releases some of the pressure, but then there’s knife at her throat instead. “Wait- _fuck_ -”

 

“I know you have the schedule,” the captain growls, and Silver swallows. Flint’s angry eyes are boring right through her, like she dares Silver to lie to her in this moment. “Were you arrogant enough to think you could hide from me?”

 

For the little that she knows of Flint, Silver can deduce some things. Flint will kill Silver, if just to make a point on what she does to those who cross her. She needs to play this carefully, or else Flint will leave her for dead before she has the chance to open her mouth.

 

Silver thinks to herself, _No way will I die here, not now_ , and so she says, honest for the first time in days, “I took the schedule from Singleton. I took it from him when he was here.”

 

“Tell me where you’ve put it,” Flint’s body is pressed right up against Silver, and with each inhale - even her breathing feels aggressive, muscles flexing against Silver’s front. When Silver is slow to answer, she gathers the front of her dress, pulling her away just to push her against the rocks once more.

 

“I don’t have it,” Silver says quickly, seeing Flint’s eyes narrow. “Not anymore.”

 

“Where the _fuck_ did you put it?”

 

“You’re looking at it,” Silver says, and she manages to draw her chin up a little, looking Flint right in the eye. “I memorized it, then I got rid of the paper. If you kill me, you’ll never get it.”

 

She had stood on the edge of the cliffs, torn the parchment and she had let the wind take the scraps from her hands, drift into the water. She’s always been a quick study, and she has to say that being faced with near-certain death had quite sharpened her memorization skills in that moment.

 

“You think I won’t get that schedule?” Flint’s voice is low, and it shouldn’t send something racing down Silver’s spine, but it does anyways, like the low whistle of wind before a storm. “I’ll get that information from you one way or another.”

 

The real danger here isn’t as much the knife at her throat. It’s that Flint can’t place Silver, with her quick smiles and curly hair - and so Silver decides that she’ll put herself in a place that Flint will understand, can understand.

 

She slides her thigh so that it goes in between Flint’s, bracketed by each breath she takes. Her hands find purchase in the loose material at Flint’s waist, as she pulls her impossibly closer. Flint stills in her grasp as Silver says, “I think we could work to come to an arrangement.” The muscles of Flint’s thighs flex ever so slightly around hers, heavy and warm, as Silver ducks her head just a little, her nose brushing Flint’s jaw - she can smell smoke, like there truly are flames creeping under her skin, all the way to the ends of her hair - to say, “How about we discuss some terms?”

 

But Flint pulls back quickly as though Silver had pulled a knife on her, and she wrenches her shirt free of Silver’s grip. “I’m not interested,” Flint snarls, taking a step back, but the knife is still in her hand.

 

“A shame,” Silver says, still leaning against the wall, and she eyes the knife. “You’re far from the least comely associate I’ve had.”

 

“Start talking, _now_.”

 

But before Flint can make good on her threat, there’s the distinct sound of a pistol cocking. “Captain,” Jack Rackham says, stepping out from the shadows of the wrecks and carrying a torch. “I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to step away from the good lady.”

 

Silver would laugh - out of all the things she’s been called, _good_ is not one of them - or maybe out of the sheer urge to start praying thanks for Jack _fucking_ Rackham. But Flint doesn’t budge from in front of her. “And what the fuck are you doing here?”

 

“He’s with me.” The second voice is deeper, as two more figures step out from the wrecks. Silver sees Anne Bonny, or more like she sees the glint of the two knives at her hip, and she realizes who the other man beside her is.

 

“Flint,” Charles Vane says, not bothering to draw his gun, “Give us the girl, and we’ll have no problem here.”

 

Flint gives Silver a once-over. “Clever,” she says, nearly under her breath, and Silver would be surprised if only she didn’t feel like she was still dancing on the edge of a blade, even when the captain turns to face the three, Silver watching her profile, and not daring to move anyways. “Vane. This is none of your business.”

 

“I think it’s quite our business, considering that she approached us to buy the schedule from her just a few hours ago,” Rackham says, taking another step forward. “I would ask you to make this situation uncomplicated and allow us to complete our transaction.” He looks past the captain, at Silver. “The schedule, if you please - ?”

 

“She memorized the schedule,” Flint says, jerking her head towards Silver while not moving her eyes away from Vane. “Burned the paper.”

 

There’s a brief silence, as Rackham’s eyes dart to Flint, and he adjusts his grip on the torch. “Well, that certainly complicates matters. Still, I’ll have to insist that she come with us.”

 

“It was in my crew’s possession, so it belongs to my crew,” Flint says flatly, and now she’s looking at the other captain instead of Rackham. “I won’t let you attempt to take the prize information away from them.”

 

“Singleton was coming to us,” Rackham says, and Flint looks at him. “So indeed, you’ll find that the schedule is rightfully ours.”

 

Flint takes a step forward, her booth crunching in the pebbles between them. “You would poach one of my crew, try to usurp me?” she asks, her voice quiet but nearing a snarl.

 

“You let the schedule slip from between your fingers,” Vane says, and Silver can see Flint’s fingers clench. “I wonder if the crew will let you keep your position, even after you’ve lost them five million pieces of gold?”

 

“That schedule belongs to them, and to me, and to Eleanor Guthrie,” Flint throws back, and Vane’s eyes narrow, his jaw going tense. “I won’t let you take that from us.”

 

“Well,” Vane says, “Then it seems that we’ll have to settle this.” From behind him, Bonny draws her knives, but he puts an arm out. “We’ll do this the old way.”

 

From her profile, Silver can see Flint’s face twist in a snarl. “I’d like to see you try. “

 

“Jesus Christ,” another voice says, before either can lunge at each other , and another man steps out from the wrecks, his bald head glinting in the light from Rackham’s torch. “I leave you alone for barely a night, and I come back to you picking more fights.”

 

Rackham clears his throat, as if to defuse the violent tension. “Mr. Gates, you seem to be a reasonable man. If you could convince your captain - “

 

“The only thing I’ll be convincing her of is to let you walk out of here alive,” Gates warns. Behind him, two more men emerge - members of the Walrus crew. “Do we have a problem?”

 

Vane looks at Gates, then turns his head back to Flint. “This isn’t over,” he says again.

 

Flint’s lip curls, and Silver watches as the Ranger captain leaves with Rackham and Bonny in tow, the former giving them a lingering look.

 

Once they’re gone, Gates releases a breathe. “Jesus Christ,” he repeats, turning to Flint with eyes round in anger. “Vane could’ve just as easily killed all of us here - and then what?”

 

Flint nods, her eyes still on the place where Vane had disappeared. “He’ll be a problem.”

 

“And what about her?” Gates asks, jerking his chin towards Silver, who takes a step to the side. Not that she can go anywhere - one of the men who had come with Gates, a tall one, steps forward with a frown, like he’s going to catch her.

 

“I believe we can work this out,” Silver tries, and then Flint’s turning to look at her again, her eyes just as narrow as before. “One that involves all of us walking out of here, mind you, and that doesn’t have the gold falling into Vane’s hands.”

 

Gates scoffs, stepping forward, but Silver continues, “Captain Flint - there is a way that you get your gold, and Vane doesn’t see a piece of it. All for the cost of a share of that gold - “

 

“A share,” Flint repeats, her voice flat.

 

Even if Flint’s not interested, she can still work this. She straightens up, licks her lips - and perhaps it’s a trick of the light, but for a moment, she thinks she sees Flint’s eyes flicker down to her mouth. Maybe there might be some interest after all.

 

Behind them, the sun finally starts to rise, and the edges of Flint’s auburn hair are touched a dangerous gold in its ways. She’s playing with fire here, as Silver directs her attention to the captain once again.

 

““Well?” Flint says again, as Silver takes a small step away from the wall.

 

“I believe that we can make an arrangement,” she says, and gathers her confidence.

 

This might work.

 

  * ••



 

This might not work.

 

Flint, for the lack of a better word, hauls her to Eleanor Guthrie’s, straight from the wrecks. She pushes Silver in front of her up the stairs, until they’re at the top - and Flint raps her knuckles against the door, waiting until the door creaks open.

 

“Why is she alive?” Eleanor asks, looking annoyed, hair is rumpled from sleep, as Flint pushes her into the room. Silver tries to send her an easy smile, but Eleanor’s expression doesn’t budge.

 

“She memorized the schedule,” Flint says curtly, as Silver glances between the two of them.

 

Eleanor looks just as irritated. “What the fuck happened?”

 

“Charles Vane happened, that’s what,” Gates says from behind the captain, and with a look, he sends the other two men back down the stairs. “Madame Guthrie, apologies for waking you up.”

 

“ _Charles-_ ” Eleanor starts, then reins herself in with another glance at Silver. “Captain. A word."

 

“First, we need to discuss what to do with _her_ ,” Gates says, giving a meaningful look over to Silver. “You can’t just bring a woman with us out of nowhere - “

 

“You’re going to take me on with your crew,” Silver interrupts, and she forces herself to keep her back straight as she’s met with three intense glares. “I’ll come with you to get the gold.”

 

“You’re serious,” Flint says, after a beat.

 

Silver turns to look at her. “I’m an excellent cook,” she says helpfully, and flinches when Flint sends a dark scowl in her direction.

 

“We could use a cook,” Gates muses, and he doesn’t look away from Silver, his eyes sharpening, even as Flint turns her head with the sort of force that looks physically painful.

 

“ _Captain_ ,” Eleanor enunciates.

 

“Go back to the beach,” Flint tells her quartermaster. “Tell the men that we’ll be refitting the ship starting this dawn. I want her in prime condition for hunting.”

 

For a moment, Silver wonders if they’ll just leave her in there, but then Flint turns back to her, and she has barely a moment to react as Flint seizes her wrist. She swears, as Flint uses her surprise against her to quickly handcuff her to the chaise lounge in Eleanor Guthrie’s office. “What the fuck?”

 

That makes Flint look at her at last. “If you try to escape,” Flint says, her eyes flashing, “I’ll kill you myself.”

 

She stalks out, then, and Silver glances over to see Eleanor Guthrie looking at her with a line in her brow.

 

“Well?” Silver says, letting herself sound mulish. “You want to cuff my ankles, too?”

 

Eleanor rolls her eyes, and she, Gates, and the man leave after Flint. Silver stares at the closed door, and she lets herself slump onto the floor next to the lounge.

 

  * ••



 

“You’ll have to take her on,” is what Eleanor says to Flint as soon as they’re alone. Gates and Eleanor had exchanged a significant look before the quartermaster had stepped away - and that never boded well for Flint, she thinks to herself, as Eleanor had showed her to one of the back rooms near the kitchen. “It’s the best solution, believe it or not.”

 

“I will not,” Flint snaps, crossing her arms. “I don’t just take on every wide-eyed whore - one who crossed me, mind you - “

 

“Mr. Gates said that you challenged Charles,” Eleanor bites back. “What the fuck did you think that was going to do?”

 

“If this is about the schedule - “

 

“He won’t let you enter the harbor again without challenging you,” Eleanor says, and Flint hates that she’s right, “He’d rather sink your ship, with you and the gold still on it, rather than have you parading victorious down the street, and if he can convince the girl in there to tell him where to seek you out on open water, level the playing field -  “

 

“You don’t think that you might be a little _biased_ when it comes to him - “

 

“Don’t,” Eleanor snaps, crossing her arms just as tightly in front of her. “Don’t you fucking dare suggest that.”

 

“Compromised, then,” Flint says testily. “I get the schedule from the thief, I go out and get the gold. You keep her here, away from Vane or any of his men, and he won’t know where to challenge me.”

 

“If she’s a smart girl,” Eleanor says, sounding hollow. “She won’t give you the entire schedule here. You’ll have to take her on, keep her close, otherwise she’ll tell Vane where to find the gold.”

 

“He’d kill her just as likely - if not more - as I would.”

 

“Doesn’t matter,” Eleanor says. “Not to her. She’s been backed into a corner, and she’ll use whatever she can to get out of her.”

 

“You seem to have an awful amount of sympathy for her.”

 

“She’s desperate to stay in a seat of power, and she’ll manipulate and lie to get what she wants,” Eleanor says, and it sounds much too heavy for such a young woman. “Does that sound familiar?”

 

Flint exhales, watches as the sun rises from the back window of the kitchen. After a few minutes, she says, “I’m not going to assign some sort of guardian to watch over her. I need my men focused, and her presence cannot detract from that.”

 

“Then I would suggest to her that she should watch her step,” Eleanor says. “I’m sure she’ll realize just how precarious her position here is, just as the rest of us.”

 

“This will blow up in our faces,” Flint says grimly, and Eleanor snorts.

 

“Sleep here for a few hours. We’ll let the thief stew in her choices until then. Give her a chance to change her mind, maybe. “ She moves back towards the door, opening it and glancing back at Flint. “I’ll tell your quartermaster that you agree, then.”

 

“He’ll love that,” Flint says, and Eleanor shoots her a wry smile. Flint’s mouth quirks up at one corner, but it’s all that she can muster, as the door closes behind her, and Flint lets herself sit at one of the empty chairs.

 

  * ••



 

They come back for her in a few hours.

 

From her admittedly limited vantage point, Silver can tell that it’s just before noon. Guthrie had pushed a tankard of watered down rum towards her just an hour ago, just as the sun began to shine through the slats of the of the window across the room, before the blond woman had departed with another angry look at her.

 

Silver had taken the time to contemplate her circumstances. Her hands were tied - in both manners - and she was reliant on the captain’s whims as of that moment. It’s not a unfamiliar position - but far from a comfortable one - and so she’s forced to wait, occasionally jangling the cuff just to see if by some miracle, it would fall apart and she could be free of all of this.

 

Now, the quartermaster, the captain, and Nassau’s trade boss were all staring her down. One of Flint’s crew - the same lanky one from before - had unlocked the cuffs, and she rubbed her wrist as she waited for Gates and Flint to stop exchanging significant looks. They had made her write down part of the schedule, double checked it with whatever intelligence they could scrounge up. Given that they’re back now, Silver would guess that she’s passed.

 

“There are some terms and conditions the captain and I discussed,” Gates says, glancing at Flint one last time. “If you don’t mind - ?“

 

“Silver,” Silver says. “I go by Silver.”

 

“You’ll be doing your fair share as a cook along Randall,” Gates starts after a slight glance over at Flint, who’s staring at up at Silver. “In exchange for rations and board, and your previous crimes against the crew will be forgiven.”

 

“You’ll be put to work,” Flint says. “Hard work. No idle time outside of eating and sleeping, no leaving the camp on your own, no perfumed baths or whatever you may be used to-“

 

Silver can’t help but to ask, “Pardon me, captain, but exactly what kind of whorehouses have you been frequenting?”

 

She can see a vein pulsing in Flint’s neck, but Gates quickly continues, “You’ll also be _obeying the_ _captain’s orders_ , and mine,” he says then, with emphasis. “No special treatment. You will be be staying right under the captain’s watch, so you won’t even dream of a chance to go back on these conditions.”

 

“What?” Silver and Flint say at the same time.

 

“It’s only proper,” Gates says, only looking at Flint. “She can’t sleep along the men.”

 

“Mr. Gates will be busy corralling the men, captain, and I think we can all agree that she is not to be trusted,” Guthrie says, jerking her chin at Silver.

 

“She knew what she signed onto,” Flint replies, just as Silver says, “Yeah, I’ll take my chances with the men - "

 

“That’s my own rule,” Gates says firmly, looking at her. “You’ll not meddle with the captain's belongings if you wish to live to see another day. Captain - "

 

“No,” Flint says, bristling. “ _Absolutely_ not.”

 

  * ••



 

“Bedroll,” the tall man says - Billy, he had told her when she had inquired his name, even though his tone was rather short - and Silver barely manages to catch the bundle of canvas that he thrusts upon her. “Save your cup and plate, those’ll be yours for the duration of your stay, and on the ship while we refit.”

 

Closer to the sea, it’s hotter than even in the center of Nassau, Silver thinks to herself. She can feel sweat drip down the back of her neck - and that’s even in the new clothes that Eleanor Guthrie had found her, curtly telling Silver that _there was no way that any of this mad fucking plan will work if you’re in a bodice out there_. The shirt was relatively similar to what she was used to, but she has to say, the trousers are a new, freeing sort of experience, both heavier and lighter than she expected - as are the slightly too small boots she had crammed her feet into. In the distance, the Walrus is beached, the faint shouts of the men working on the ship audible from here even though they’re barely visible at this distance.

 

“All right,” Silver says, balancing the items. “Not too shabby, I’ll say.”

 

The man eyes her with a look that, while it isn’t the most unfriendly look she’s been on the receiving end of, is far from hospitable. “I’ll show you the way to the captain's tent.”

 

“How long have you been on the crew?” Silver asks, following him through the tents, ducking between them as she makes an effort to keep up with his long strides. She’s getting more than a few strange looks from the crew - the ones who hadn’t heard the news, most likely, that Flint has somehow _recruited a woman on board the ship, right from the brothel_ -

 

“You’ll be assisting Randall,” Billy tells her instead, and Silver follows his gaze to a man, who’s staring at her with a scrutiny that might rival even Flint. “He’s a bit slow, but he’ll be able to shout if you try anything.”

 

Silver raises her hands defensively. “I’m not one to start a quarrel,” she says, and Billy sends her an incredulous look.

 

“You stole that schedule from the captain, then set her up against _Charles Vane,_ the one person on this island who would be mad enough to try to kill her. I’d say you’re well on your way past a quarrel,” the man says, frowning. “You’re either very stupid or very dangerous.”

 

“Your captain, she isn’t an admired woman, is she?”

 

“She’s a captain,” Billy says, like Silver’s slow. “It isn’t her job to be admired.”

 

“I find that it’s often easiest to be liked in order to get anything done,” Silver says. “What do you think of her, then?”

 

Billy stops, but instead of answering, he jerks his chin past her. “In there. Go set those down."

 

Flint isn’t inside when Silver pushes open the flap. The inside is sparse - and although it’s larger than the other tents on the beach, she still has to swallow at the thought of sleeping so close to a person who had brained one of her own crew just a day ago. There’s a desk in the corner, bottles holding down several stacks of paper - and Silver’s fingers itch to go through the contents for a moment, but she knows better than to push her luck for now.

 

She’s trapped here, that much she knows. She can’t escape, and she certainly can’t see a way to leverage her way off this island. But for now, until she finds the solution, she will use what she knows works - she will make herself _liked_ , as that is the most valuable tool that one can use to get their way.

 

The only issue that Silver sees is getting the captain to like her. But that’s a challenge that she will no doubt find some way to navigate.

 

Billy’s still there, his arms crossed and looking faintly annoyed as she exits. “I’ve told Randall that if you try anything, to come right for me,” he says. “Hope you’re ready to peel potatoes.”

 

Behind Billy, Randall belches, wiping his nose on his sleeve before continuing to slowly peel a potato. Silver grimaces.

 

  * ••



 

“This is beyond a terrible idea,” Flint says. Across from her at the table, Gates gives a half shrug, downing his own drink.

 

“We’ve done worse,” he says reflectively. There aren’t many people in the tavern this time of day, but given the quality of the past few days, Flint had needed a drink there. “I’ll make it work.”

 

“You can’t tell me there’s a way you spin this to the men that’ll let them easily accept having a woman like her on the crew,” Flint says. “Hal, even those who hadn’t seen her at the brothel - who had _been with her_ -

 

Gates shrugs. Behind them, a man is drunkenly telling his companions about some bet, but his words are slurred, too strung together to make out. “The Ranger crew’s mostly accepted Bonny at this point, I’ll remind then. And then there’s you - “

 

“I’m not like her.”

 

“No, but to them, it’s not a far step,” he says, before tapping his fingers on the empty tankard. “They’ll see what they want to see, and I can’t convince them away from that.”

 

Flint stares into the liquid in her cup. “They’ll craft the stories they want to hear,” she says, swirling the liquid around, catching the light from the doors leading outside. When she glances up, Gates’s eyes are on her. “What?”

 

“There it is again,” he says, his eyes measuring. “You’ve been different - for a while now.”

 

“Different?” Flint keeps her voice even.

 

“You’ve always been different than the rest of us lot - aside from the obvious,” Gates says, and Flint barely resists rolling her eyes. “I thought it was just one of your passing moods - God knows you have those - "

 

“Hal.” There’s something in his eyes that discomfits her, makes her push the handle of her tankard as she stares him down. “If there’s something you want to say, then you should just say it.”

 

“There’s something else. Something since the Maria Aleyne,” Gates continues, and something turns in Flint's stomach just at the mention. She’s caught for a moment, feeling the sticky handle of her sword, the screams echoing in the cabin over the sick in her veins - before she can refocus on what Gates is still saying. “- I know you don’t want me to bring it up - “

 

“I don’t.” Flint finishes her drink, tries not to taste blood between her teeth. “We won’t.”

 

“You’ve been acting strangely,” he says, insistently, and Flint looks back at him. “I don’t know if it’s some business with Mr. McGraw, but you can’t tell me everything's alright - and now with the business with the thief - “

 

“Hal,” Flint warns again.

 

“- or if it’s the fact that we’ve been running short the last few months, but for a captain about to become richer than any other fuck on this island, you certainly don’t seem overjoyed at the possibility,” Gates finishes. “Now, tell me, does that sound like a captain who I can easily convince any man to follow?”

 

Flint looks at him for a long time, enough so that his eyes begin to shift to the side, under her gaze. “I’m sure you’ll find a way,” Flint says coldly, and then she pushes back her chair, throwing a few coins on the table as she passes behind her.

 

Gates doesn’t follow her when she leaves the tavern. Even though the sun is bright overhead, it still feels cold on her skin.

 

  * ••



 

Silver’s a temporary member of the Walrus crew for a grand total of two hours before the crew starts to sniff around. She’s working in the makeshift galley, across from Randall, who’s decided to take a nap in the midday sun, when they approach her.

 

“Hey - you,” a dark-haired men says, leaning against the tent pole. Silver looks up, and she can see behind him how a few more of the men lift their heads in curiosity. “You one of the whores?”

 

Silver picks up another potato, starts peeling it with her knife. She’s already cut her hand twice, but she tries to keep the annoyance out of her voice when she replies, “No longer, I’m afraid.”

 

“Heard Flint brought you down here,” another man says, coming up behind the first man. “You fucking the captain or somethin'?”

 

Silver snorts. “Hardly.” She flicks her wrist, and a large chunk of skin comes off, along with a large part of the potato. “Damn. Well, as you can see, I’m quite busy - “

 

“I recognize you from the brothel in town,” another man says coldly, this one in spectacles that glint in the sun. “Why is the captain hiring whores and bringing them onto our beach?”

 

“I’m providing a decidedly non-sexual business for the captain,” Silver says, looking right at him, “Involving the Urca de Lima gold.”

 

That gathers their interest even more. “You sure you ain’t a whore?” one of them asks again. The men who had been lying around in the adjacent sleeping quarters are now lifting their heads at this new conversation.

 

Silver musters all her energy for a smile. “Gentlemen, I have retired from that practice,” she says evenly. “If you ask your quartermaster, he will confirm that I am temporarily stationed here as part of an agreement between Madame Guthrie and the captain.”

 

“You ain’t part of the crew?” A shorter, bald man pipes up. Silver can’t help but to smirk a little at that.

 

“I’m reasonably certain that for all my skills in this world, being part of your crew would not be among them. I’m not sure I’d even be the prettiest among you,” Silver says, and she sends a wink to one of the men over in the tent, a fair-haired youth who blushes, ducking his head down as the men around him break into surprised guffaws.

 

The short bald man actually comes to sit by her. “Don’t mind Dufresne, he’s just bitter because the captain’s taken over his accounting duties,” he says in a low voice, as Dufresne scoffs and walks away. "Thinks he’ll get thrown off the ship at this rate.”

 

“The captain can do that?”

 

“She’s thrown men off this crew for far less,” the first man chimes in. “But back to the brothel - did you know a lady by the name of Charlotte?”

 

This is a path she hadn’t considered, but as the men start to crowd around, asking her about the salacious details about the others in the brothel, some of them even daring to share embarrassing stories of their fellow crew, Silver can see the opportunity as it comes to light. She knows the power of stories, after all.

 

When there’s a lull in the conversation, Silver takes the chance and says, “Let me tell you a story of a man who came into the brothel where I worked once, in Port Royal. He went by the name of Solomon Little…"

 

  * ••



 

Flint feels the most settled in her skin the closer she is to the ocean. It applies here, the water just a few steps away even as she settles in her chair, in the tent at the beach. Flint leans back in the chair, gazing out at the water that extends out to the far horizon.

 

She wonders what Martin is doing. Flint pictures him hanging laundry out on one of the lines that stretch out behind the house, the drooping twine that he had put up, wiping his forehead as he chases a loose sheet that had billowed into the wind -

 

She chases away such thoughts before too long. There’s five million pieces of gold to plan for, and she can’t be caught by fantasy, not when she’s so close that she can nearly taste the metal between her teeth. Flint ducks in between two of the tents, passing through the back flap of her own tent to avoid interacting with any of the men.

 

Before she can even consider going to the hammock to catch a few hours of sleep, though, she finds she’s not alone. “Oh, you’re back,” Silver says. The thief is standing there, stirring something in a bowl she’s holding, strongly fragrant of an eclectic mix of herbs even from here. “Good meeting with Madame Guthrie, was it?”

 

“Leave,” Flint orders, pulling forward the closest piece of paper towards her as she takes a seat, refusing to be chased out _her own goddamn tent._ The woman doesn’t leave, though, and Flint clenches her jaw as she reminds herself she needs the thief alive.

 

“Now, I thought that perhaps if we were to be sharing a tent, we could get to know each other,” Silver says. “Get to build some trust, perhaps - “

 

“I don’t trust you, and I never will,” Flint says flatly, glancing down at where Silver has balanced the bowl on her hip before looking down. But Silver makes some sort of sound, and Flint can’t help but to glances up - and so help her, the woman is _pouting_ . “I’m certainly not going to _talk_ to you. You’ve done nothing but lie in the incredibly short time you’ve been nothing but an annoyance.”

 

“What happened to the sacred bond of trust between women in this wretched world?” Silver asks, and something bitter rises in Flint’s throat. “I could be honest with you.”

 

“There is no such thing,” Flint bites out, looking down at the paper - some chart that is not necessary for plotting the first part of the schedule, but she refuses to as much as look at the thief right now. “Anyone will lie or cheat their way anywhere in this world. You would know."

 

Silver swats at the bugs coming close to her bowl. “That’s awfully cynical of you.” She laughs, then, but she stops when Flint doesn’t laugh as well.

 

Flint thinks about Singleton lying dead on the dirt, his blood dripping from her fingertips, and focuses on the low thrum that she had felt singing in her blood, the cruel twist of satisfaction on _victory,_ and she looks at Silver right in the eye, calmly.

 

It works. Silver swallows her next words, her throat working, and she turns her attention to stirring whatever is in the bowl with renewed rigor.

 

“It is,” Flint says, and satisfied as Silver’s silence, she goes back to her charts, hoping the woman has at least enough common sense to recognize the dismissal.

 

“Well, then, I’m glad we got the lying and cheating out of the way, then,” Silver says, and when Flint’s eyes snap up to look at her against her will, Silver’s already turning to finally leave her.

 

She looks different - and it takes Flint a moment to realize it's because she's in a loose shirt and trousers, her gait more of a swing as she walks that the skirts from before had hidden. It takes Flint a moment before she realizes that she’s watching the thief, as she stops by the galley, where Randall's sitting on the ground and washing bowls.

 

The sunlight overhead makes the edges of the woman’s curly hair glint a rich brown color for a moment around the edges. The thief glances over to her, like she knows that Flint’s eyes on her, and Flint drags her eyes away.

 

The woman is going to be a problem, Flint thinks grimly, and picks up her quill, forcing her eyes to stay on the paper.

 

  * ••



 

For all of the practice Silver has had determining people’s morales, motivations, hopes and dreams, she can’t place Flint.

 

In the week she’s been among the Walrus crew, she’s been able to observe Flint. The captain isn’t Vane’s secret lover, nor Gates’, nor Eleanor Guthrie’s, as Silver has heard before the latter name brought a new set of complaints among the men she was eavesdropping on. Silver has seen - and heard of - how she fights like an unhinged man, bloody and cruel and furious in a way that lets her surpass the myths that they tell about her in the corners of dark taverns.

 

They say she arrived in Nassau during a hurricane. They say that she brought with her a priest she had kidnapped to father her children, whom she then turned into storms to guide the direction of her ship. They say she has sworn to kill as many men on this Earth as she could, that she bathes in the blood of young children ripped from their mother’s breasts to attain immortality, doomed to serve the seas forever in return.

 

In reality, Silver has seen Flint conjure exactly zero storm-like offspring, but she does know how she speaks with the sort of conviction that if she were a man, they would write books about her. There’s a stiffness to her posture that speaks of someone who might better be found in a London parlor rather than a dusty brothel in the Bahamas, and yet she has a fierce temper that rivals any man's on the island, a dangerous look about her like the air rippling over fire.

 

She’s a woman of opposites, and being around her is like staring up at the sun - transfixing, blinding.

 

She asks Billy about the supposed husband a few days into her time on the beach. Billy - who seemed to have gotten over the fact that apparently an ex-whore lives in their captain’s tent now the quickest - gives Silver a dark look that makes Silver regret asking for a moment.

 

So Silver hangs around, helping peel potatoes or lug water, and she listens to the men gossip, having grown used to her presence in even this short amount of time. Honestly, they’re worse than the whores back at the brothel, she thinks to herself, as she hears yet another rendition of the story behind how Joji never speaks, or how Muldoon once nearly burned down the beach camp by falling asleep with a pipe in hand.

 

Myth or not, Flint has managed to wrangle together a crew, gained their respect - however tenuous her hold on them might be - and she’s become one of the most feared pirate captains in the New World. That, Silver knows.

 

She only wonders what else is behind the myth.

 

  * ••



 

Flint is going to _murder_ the thief.

 

The schedule be damned, if she has to put up with Silver’s incessant chatter - or worse, look over and once again catch a sight of a look of fake surprise, blue eyes wide, because _oh captain,_ _I didn’t give the crew food poisoning, now why would I do that on purpose like you’re suggesting_? - she’ll just drown her in the sea herself.

 

After the first time Silver had cooked, she had somehow undercooked and burned the pig. So instead of cooking, she seems to spend her days lounging around the food tent, chatting with the men and generally doing nothing. But she’s not off telling Vane about the gold’s whereabouts, nor does she seem to be plotting against any of the crew that she’s been so friendly with, so Flint will take it.

 

Only once Silver seems to take notice of the fact that the men are far less the feared brutes they’d like everyone on the island to think of them as - and of course she notices, because Flint is growing to learn, much to her displeasure, that for all Silver talks, she notices far more, and she’s right in the middle of them right now - she gets far more comfortable with the crew, and then she apparently gets used to Flint herself.

 

Flint prides herself on few things in this life, and one of those things is that her name is synonymous with fear in many men’s heads. She’s had seasoned crew members nearly piss themselves with a well-timed look. But Silver doesn’t seem to take heed of all the glares, the threats, and she doesn’t scamper back to the brothel after a few days.

 

So Flint grits her teeth, and when she lies awake at night, listening to Silver snoring through her mouth on the ground on the far side of the tent - it’s been a long time since she’s shared sleeping quarters with anyone, and now even the smallest noises seem to keep her up - she thinks of five million pieces of gold to keep her sane.

 

Of course, the whole plan might end when she comes back one afternoon to find Silver rifling through her books.

 

Silver does even look the slightest repentant, as she glances up where Flint has gone still at the entrance to the tent, thumbing through a copy of Cervantes. “I was looking to see if you had any cookbooks. The men were growing quite tired of the savory pig, see - "

 

“I do believe Gates said something about _meddling,”_ Flint snarls. "Put it down."

 

Silver does, in a rare moment of obedience. Fear flitting across her face for a brief moment as whatever she sees on Flint’s expression. “Ah, apologies, captain - “

 

“Enough.” Flint hadn’t realized her fists were clenched until she takes a step towards Silver, and they swing heavily at her sides. “You may have wormed your way onto this crew, but do not think that you have a place to even _risk_ here."

 

“I’m not a part of your crew, captain,” Silver says, sharp, and in the low light, her blue eyes are stark. “You’ve made that incredibly clear. I’m here until you are ready to depart with the gold, and then I’ll be on my way to somewhere far away from here once your ship returns with my share."

 

“And what makes you think you’ll just be _let go?"_

 

“I didn’t know you killed innocent women, captain,” Silver says lightly enough, but there’s an edge to her words. “Now why would I tell you the accurate information in the first place once I think that?”

 

That makes something inside her grow even tighter, and Flint take a step closer, Silver backing up in the same breath. “You’re playing an awfully dangerous game,” she says coldly, and she can hear the back of Silver’s thighs hit the desk as she takes another step towards her. “If I even _think_ for a moment that you’ve lied to us - “

 

“You could take me on the crew,” Silver says. She tilts her chin up, and Flint realizes just how close she’s gotten when she can see how her lower lashes cross over each other near the inner corner of her eye. “You said it yourself. For all intents and purposes - “

 

“I don’t just take random men, let alone _girls_ on my crew,” Flint snaps. “You wouldn’t last a day on my ship.”

 

“I think you underestimate my ability to adapt, captain,” Silver says, and her lips curl up on one side, as she watches Flint. “So what, I have to prove myself to you? I’ve done many things - “

 

“I’m sure you have _done_ many things,” Flint says coldly, and it’s a little uncalled for, as Silver’s eyes flash.

 

“Get me a rifle,” she says unexpectedly, and Flint blinks.

 

“What?”

 

“Where can I find a rifle?” Silver repeats, and her eyes are fixed on Flint. ““And something I can shoot. I’ll show you at least one skill that I think even you will find useful for your ship.”

 

That’s how they end up on the beach. Flint crosses her arms, as a few of her men - and _honestly_ , they have a _schedule_ to be following, _where the fuck is Gates_ \- watch as Silver hikes up her trousers before bending to set down an empty tankard on top of a barrel. It’s far enough so that Flint deems it an acceptable challenge, one that she isn’t sure that even she could make.

 

One of the men whistles as Silver pulls up the collar of her shirt, where it had slipped to reveal her slender shoulder. The woman flashes a smile over her shoulder, adjusting the bottle so the handle is facing out to the side. She rolls up her sleeves as she comes back to where Flint is standing, ignoring the considering muttering of the men around them as she walks right up to her.

 

If this ends in Silver getting burned by a powder explosion, well, Flint will consider that her punishment for the insubordination. Flint says, “You get one shot. I won’t have you wasting ammunition.”

 

“Of course, captain,” Silver says easily, and she takes the rifle from Billy, who is the only one other than Flint who looks unexcited by this all. “Ah - “ She tears open the packet with her teeth, spitting powder, and she fumbles with the ramrod for a second as she loads the rifle. One of the men make a jeering noise, and Flint hides a scoff. “I’ve been a little rusty - ah, there we go - "

 

She aims, and just as quickly as she had fumbled with it, Flint sees how her shoulders tense up just the right amount, and Silver fires the rifle.

 

The tankard moves ever so slightly, and the men, who had been holding their breaths, release the sound. “Ah, shit luck, “ one of them says. “Tough shot though."

 

“Now hold on just a moment, gentlemen,” Silver says, her eyes on the target. “Muldoon, if you wouldn’t mind - “

 

Flint watches as the man goes over, fetches the tankard. It’s still intact, but as he brings it back, hands it to the woman, she turns back to Flint.

 

“There you are, captain,” Silver says, and she holds out the cup. “Wouldn’t want to waste a perfectly good drinking vessel, after all.”

 

Flint takes the tankard from her. Up close, she can see how in between the top part of the handle and the body, there is a ridge where the bullet must have passed right through it, denting the metal. She traces the dent with her thumb, before looking back up at Silver, who’s still holding the rifle, her eyes still on Flint.

 

Flint says, “Mr. Dobbs?”

 

The man, who had been among the group - all of them now silent, watching Flint - says, “Aye, captain?”

 

“You’re going to work with Miss Silver here,” Flint orders. There’s a smear of powder on the corner of Silver’s mouth, and when she smirks, it stretches out, as dark as the loose curl of hair that’s stuck on the side of her neck. “You’ll be back in the vanguard in our upcoming hunt. She will be replacing you in the crow’s nest."

 

  * ••



 

In between meeting with Eleanor and finishing preparing the Walrus, Flint finds an afternoon to journey back to the interior before they are to depart. Clouds have been gathering on the far horizon, and on her way there, she’s busy calculating the likelihood of them running into the storm when they depart tomorrow morning, nearly not noticing when the horse brings her up to the house.

 

At the house, Martin’s eyes are on her when she glances up during a lull in conversation. They’re eating together, and Martin had just finished telling her about the neighbor’s new goat, who had just given birth.

 

Flint wipes her mouth. “I’m sorry, were you saying something?”

 

“No,” Martin says, and he gives her a small smile. “You just look like you’re somewhere else today.”

 

Flint reaches out, puts a hand on his. “I’m sorry, I’ve been preoccupied with getting the crew ready.” She scowls. “And in a moment of insanity, apparently, I’ve had the thief join the crew.”

 

“The thief,” Martin says. “The one who stole the page?”

 

“The same,” Flint says, letting go of his hand to take another sip of tea. “I suppose now, I won’t have to worry about her escaping Eleanor and selling the information as soon as the Walrus disappears over the horizon.”

 

“She sounds a little like you, actually,” Martin remarks, and Flint has to focus on swallowing her tea rather than spitting it out. “Not in terms of the betrayal,” he quickly amends. "No, I meant that she sounds quite - well - “

 

“Traitorous?” Flint supplies.

 

“I was going to say resilient,” Martin says, the corner of his mouth twitching. “It reminds me of back in London, when I first met you.”

 

Flint reaches down, toys with the handle of her tea cup as she asks carefully, “Does it?”

 

“I remember a time in which you told me that I had to be much more careful,” Martin says, and he sounds wistful. Something curls in her stomach unpleasantly, as does any reminder of - then. “I suppose it’s the other way now.”

 

“It’s been a long time since I was that woman,” Flint says, looking down at her plate, hoping that Martin will give it up. But instead, he leans back in his chair.

 

“It’s not been that long,” he says, and he gets that look in his eye just like all the other times he’s tried to have this conversation. “I think out there, you’re far from who - but I see you here. I see how you’re not far from the woman you were then, the woman that could have a future beyond this place - "

 

“I’ve changed,” Flint points out, feeling an ache in her widen nearly to the point where it hurts to breathe. “We both have."

 

“That’s not what I meant,” Martin says with a frustrated exhale. “I know that - God knows, when I barely see another person for weeks on end, _I know_ that the world continues to spin on outside the realm of what I know. Even though I know you feel as though we’re frozen in this place - “

 

“And what, pray tell, does _that_ mean?”

 

"There is a life, beyond all of this,” Martin tells her, and as his face looks more flushed with his insistence, she just feels cold inside, “One that we can accept with minimum sacrifice - “

 

Flint bites back her first response to that, but the words still comes rushing out from between her teeth. “Minimum sacrifice?” she repeats. “You would call the price that must be paid - going back out into that world - into _their world_ \- a mere sacrifice? What we would have to do for them to accept us?”

 

“I think it’s a price that we must pay for happiness, yes,” Martin snaps, and she recoils at the words, “I would pay the toll to get off this fucking island, even if it meant giving up your ship - “

 

"It’s more than _giving up my ship -_ what they want, it is simply intolerable!"

 

“Then what is it?” Martin says, standing to match her, and she realizes that their volume has increased to the point where she’s sure that anyone standing outside could hear them. “What could possibly be stopping you from ending this, _Jamie_ , keeping us from that happiness?”

 

She slams her fist on the table, and he flinches. _“_ Don’t call me that - "

 

 _“_ What, am I not allowed to call you that anymore - “

 

“- not if we’ve changed as much - or do you think that just I’ve changed, that’s it’s just me who’s been _twisted_ \- "

 

“ - is that yet another ghost between us, another name you won’t - "

 

 _“ -_ I’m _not_ going to _dignify_ that - "

 

 _“_ Then tell me!” Martin shouts, and Flint feels her jaw clench, feels her molars strain. “Tell me, why won’t you stop with this - with this _madness_ ? Why you _insist_ on seeing this through until you’re sent to your fucking grave?”

 

“It means accepting that they were right!” Flint shouts, and she meant to match his volume, but instead it comes out hoarse, punched out of her chest.

 

Martin looks stunned, as Flint gets out, “It means _apologizing_. For what I’ve done. For what we’ve - I’ve - for who - “

 

“Darling - ” Martin says, as she feels her throat close, the color receding from his face as he goes over to her. He doesn’t touch her, for which she’s eternally grateful for, but his hand hovers near her, like he’s afraid she’ll collapse in on herself, which isn’t too far from how she feels right now. “I would never - “ he cuts off, looking at her face. “I would _never_.”

 

“But that’s what they want,” Flint gets out, Martin’s dark eyes wide and sorrowful, the lines on his face deepening. “That’s what they demand. That is a cost I would _never_ pay.”

 

Martin is silent as she feels the rage that she keeps so carefully out of these four walls, stuffed deep inside her so that he doesn’t see the monster she’s become, well out into her voice. Flint says, "I won’t let them twist their version of history to suit their narrative any more than I would beg for their forgiveness. I want them to be asking for _my_ forgiveness - I want them on their _fucking_ knees, weeping and begging for me to absolve them of _their_ sins - for the blood on _their_ hands.”

 

“Darling,” Martin says again, painfully quiet, as Flint unclenches her fingers so that she can pick up her coat from the back of the chair, her scabbard, rather than look at him. “This path that you’re on - it doesn’t lead where you think it does.”

 

She doesn’t reply, too focused on getting to the door, needing the fresh air so that she doesn’t feel like she’s suffocating in a way that has everything and nothing to do with the house. She stops at the door when Martin calls after her, “If she were here, she would agree with me!”

 

Flint slams the door on her way out, and she can hear the glass panes of the window rattle.

 

  * ••



 

The ship is finally ready, just as the men reach new levels of boredom and restlessness. Flint watches from up by the fort as the men organize to load the ship, rowing fresh water and ammunition out in shifts, as well as the new guns that Eleanor had provided. There’s an excited current to the air as they work, the prospect of unimaginable wealth so close in their futures that they hurry their actions.

 

Out there, the Walrus floats elegantly in the harbor, her mast straight and proud with tiny dots of men moving about her deck. Flint glances up at the sky - if this strong northwestern stays, they have a decent chance of getting far enough to avoid ships coming back from Freeport.

 

No one has seen Vane or anyone of the Ranger in several days. Back in Eleanor’s office, Flint had suggested that he had gone out to appease his crew with some other prize, but there’s a nagging sensation that keeps her cautious. She knows that Vane will not have forgotten about the encounter in the wrecks so easily, and so she’ll have to remain cautious.

 

Below on the beach, the rest of the crew are preparing to ferry the last of the supplies to the ship. She doesn’t purposefully look for Silver, but the dark curls stand out anyways down on the dock. Silver’s helping Randall sort through their provisions before boarding one of the rowboats.

 

“She’s doing better than I thought she’d be,” Gates says from behind her. “There are men on board who complained far more when they first joined up. And as our marksman - markswoman, I suppose. Who would’ve thought."

 

Flint makes a noncommittal sound. She sees that the woman has somehow acquired a blue jacket which pulls at her arms as she lifts a crate to put it on one of the boats.

 

“Billy’s going to stay here,” Gates says then. “I’ve sent him to the town with two of the men, Dufresne and Joshua.”

 

Flint keeps her eyes on the rowboats heading towards the Walrus. “Why is that?"

 

“Someone needs to prepare for the gold to be received when we return,” Gates says, and Flint turns to fully face him. “There’s not a man I trust more on this ship to keep our schedule quiet, too. Billy will keep an eye on things here, in case Vane surfaces again, and he’ll have a sloop on hand in case anything here changes.”

 

Flint glances back to the ship. They need all the men they can gather, but he raises a good point. “All right,” she says. “Make sure all the men are accounted for before you come aboard.”

 

“Aye, captain,” Gates says, and he leaves her looking out into the bay.

 

  * ••



 

“For fuck’s sake, Logan!“ one of the men says, as they nearly drop one of the crates - holding salted beef, if Silver recalls correctly - as Logan swerves into their path, carrying a box of gunpowder. “Watch it!”

 

Logan sets down the box near her, and scoffs. “Too many of us, and not enough at the same time,” he says to her. Silver makes an amused noise. “Lazy fuckers."

 

“There used to be many more on the crew, then?”

 

“Yeah,” Logan says, “We had a run-in with this ship a few months ago, the Maria Aleyne - "

 

The crew quiets down suddenly, and Silver turns to see Flint boarding the ship, swinging her legs over the rail. Logan has also gone silent, but Silver’s attention is captured by Flint, as she lands with a thump on the deck, casting a look of what can best be described as distaste over the crew. She’s wearing a long leather coat, cutting a powerful figure. If Flint looked impressive on land, it’s no match to how she strides across the ship, taking to the shifting boards with an ease that Silver envies.

 

“Silver,” Flint orders, and Silver drops the crate to follow her. From behind, she sees how the woman’s auburn hair is tied at the base of her neck in a tight knot as she goes into the cabin, as controlled as her flat features.

 

The cabin is brighter than Silver would have guessed, the sunlight striking the walls just at the right angle so that she has to squint for a moment when she steps in behind Flint.

 

She sees bookshelves first, lining the wall. There are far more books than she would have expected any captain to have in their possession - but then again, she’s seen Flint’s collection that she had brought with her onto the beach, so she’s not entirely surprised. There’s a heavy desk in front of the windows, a chair on either side, and a bed tucked away in the corner. It’s neat, utilitarian - and other than the books lining the shelves, it's absolutely devoid of anything that tells her about the captain.

 

“Set up the hammock,” Flint says, nodding to the pile of canvas and rope on the ground. “Then head back out, you’re to be loading the galley for Randall.”

 

Silver goes over to the bundle, picks it up. “How come I get a hammock, but you’ve managed to put a bed in here?”

 

“It’s because I’m a captain, and too old to be sleeping on a hammock,” Flint grunts, as she goes to sit behind her desk. The light coming in from the windows behind her makes her face look shadowy, hidden except for the glint of the earrings in her ears.

 

“You can’t be _that_ old.” The boat sways, and Silver can see Flint’s face for a moment, the light shifting to illuminate her features.

 

“Old enough,” Flint says, not looking at her. “It goes on that hook."

 

Silver eyes the hook on the ceiling. “Reminds me of something else,” she says, glancing over to where Flint is unscrewing a bottle of ink. “Something I’ve seen before.”

 

“Do enlighten me.”

 

“They put them on some beds,” Silver says, and she hears Flint set down the inkwell as she picks up one end of the hammock. “You put a piece of cloth around one’s wrists- anything soft, that you can wrap around and secure. Then you can just attach the cloth to the headboard, tie them up nicely - and I speak from _personal_ experience, it’s a fun night all around, that feeling of _restriction_ \- “

 

The thud of Flint setting down the inkwell - or dropping it - cuts her off. “Do _not,_ ” Flint says warningly, “Make me regret my decision to have you onboard.” She jerks her chin at the hammock Silver’s still holding. “Put that up, and then get out of here.”

 

“All right, all right,” Silver says, lifting it up and managing to snag one of the loops on the ceiling. “Like this?”

 

“Figure it the fuck out,” Flint snarls, looking rather red-faced and irritated, and she appears to abandon whatever she was trying to write. “Don’t _touch_ anything in here.”

 

“Right, like I’ll be able to nab one of those books over there and make a dash for it,” Silver says before she can help herself, and Flint sends her a look that makes Silver wonder for a moment if she’s about to get thrown out of a window ,before the captain’s standing up abruptly, heading towards the door.

 

  * ••



 

Being on the ship is far more tedious than Silver would have guessed. When she’s not on the ship’s watch - which she’s quickly learned is the preferred shift to have on the ship for most of the men, as it involves little more than staring out over the bow or side for hours on end, and preferable to latrine duty, after all - she finds that the lack of activity slowly grates at her nerves. The men spend most of the voyage drinking, eating, gambling or sleeping, and even as Silver is allowed to join in occasionally, she finds herself with an itch under her skin at the monotony of it all.

 

She tries to get used to the scratchy canvas of the hammock swinging under her at night, the sound of waves against the hull, the sharp barking orders of Gates whenever they catch a burst of wind. She’d never pictured herself a sailor, and the reality is still foreign to her, even as the days stretch on.

 

So Silver spends her time watching Flint. When she’s in the cabin at night, Flint is either asleep with her back to Silver, or she’s at the desk working at the charts - certainly not paying attention to Silver, no matter how much Silver tries to engage her in conversation. Flint only pays attention to her when Silver reveals part of the schedule, giving them new headings each day as they grow closer to the Urca de Lima. But on the deck, Silver hangs back, watches as Flint emerges from her cabin to give the occasional order, or just to observe the deck, arms crossed behind her back. Flint seems to be one of the few natural sailors that Silver has heard about - her abrupt mannerisms might make the men grumble when they complain over their tankards at night, but they never challenge her expertise on sailing maneuvers.

 

From her vantage point, more importantly, Silver sees how Gates watches Flint. She thought that the two were close - and they are close - but the more time they spend on the ship, the more Gates’s eyes shift to Flint when the captain isn’t looking at him.

 

Silver sees the expression on Gates’s face, and she realizes it’s not one of a friend keeping an eye on another’s back. It’s the look of a cautious man, one waiting for the other shoe to drop - and Silver’s not sure if Flint knows that with each day, Gates is looking at her less like a friend, and more like a problem to be dealt with.

 

Silver might still be learning her way on a ship, but she knows when trouble brews.

 

  * ••



 

Four days after they leave Nassau, a storm hits the ship. Silver lies back in her hammock, and tries to make it so that her white-knuckled grip on the loops of rope as her bed swings back and forth isn’t quite as visible if Flint were to glance over. Which she isn’t, since Silver has just given her the last part of the schedule earlier that evening. The Urca will be coming up on the horizon, and thanks to a jut of an island on her path, she will be undefended for a brief window of time, during which they will make their attack. Flint had half-mumbled to herself, “This will work,” as she had quickly dismissed Silver in favor of poring through her maps.

 

Now, Flint is at her desk, still drawing on her charts. Gates had just left them, having conferred with Flint to confirm with the rest of their intelligence that Silver’s schedule had in fact put them in the path of the Urca de Lima, and more importantly, allowing them to attack when the escort warship was too far away to do anything more but hear the sound of their cannons.

 

“I do hope you’re taking into account this storm while mapping out your navigation,” Silver says, as a particularly large gust of wind makes the walls of the ship shake for a moment around them, and she squeezes onto the canvas edge in response. “I would hate for our adventure to end in the ship sinking on a forgotten shoal.”

 

“Do focus on staying alive in this storm, and I will somehow manage the ship,” Flint replies without looking up. “You’re on watch in a quarter hour.”

 

“I think you’re growing fond of me, captain,” Silver says, still clutching onto the hammock. “You’d care if I were to fall overboard this night.”

 

There’s a beat of silence, and then Flint snorts. “Be sure to hold onto a line when you’re on deck,” she says, and Silver hides the smile on her face.

 

  * ••



 

Two days later, Silver wakes up to an eerie silence on the deck.

 

She comes out of the cabin, to see the men gathered, all hushed as they look towards the pink-edged clouds on the horizon, as though they know what’s out there. The air has a chill to it, as Silver wraps her jacket more around her. Beside her, one of the men is saying a low prayer, a cross in his hands. His mumbling is the only sound on deck, other than the creak of the boards, and Silver glances up to see Flint’s eyes already on her.

 

Behind her, Gates steps out of the cabin, and he says something low in Flint’s ear. Flint turns at whatever he says, says something in response that makes Gates frown.

 

“Sails to port!” one of the men shouts, and all of their eyes snap to the side, Flint and Gates included. Silver turns her head, the wind buffeting her hair, and she spots the white dot on the horizon.

 

A murmur runs through the crew, but as they all look, they don’t see a second set of sails. It’s too early to be for sure, but if Silver’s schedule is correct - and she _knows_ it’s correct - the Urca de Lima is right there, practically undefended.

 

“Prepare the guns,” Flint orders, and the men snap to work like her voice has broken them out of a trance.

 

  * ••



 

They approach the Urca, who’s hugging the shoreline as predicted, and there is no sign of the warship. Given Parrish’s page, there will be a two-hour window in which the warship will be out of range, and the Walrus will be able to engage the ship, transfer the gold to their hold, and head back to Nassau before they can be fired upon by the other ship.

 

Now, Flint stands just above the helm, Gates at her side. “Quarter turn to starboard,” she orders, and the man at the helm does so.

 

The ship groans underneath their feet, and Flint sends another glance to the Urca, now even closer. With a bit of luck, they’ll be within her firing range in ten minutes. Even as the sails luff overheard, she lets them go. She needs them overconfident, seeing her mistakes.

 

She raises her voice. “Raise the black.”

 

The men down below obey her, and Flint looks up at the black banner - her banner - lofting in the wind. She turns to take a look through the spyglass at the other ship once again.

 

They don’t surrender, nor would she expect them to. Instead, she sees their gun ports open, waiting for the Walrus to sail right into her broadsides.

 

It’s nearly time.

 

  * ••



 

Silver climbs up the rigging to get to the crow’s nest. She had done it once before, as a sort of practice run, a few days ago. Still, clinging onto the rope as best as she can, she resolutely does not look down to the waves below - nor the hard, unforgiving deck that sways below. The entire ship shudders as they take another hit from the Urca’s cannons, and Silver twists her hands into the rope even as they cut through her palms, desperate not to fall, as she continues her ascent.

 

Up in the crow’s nest, there are several rifles waiting for her, along with shot and powder. Once she’s securely up there, she picks one up, finds and aims at the ship’s helm.

 

Now, she waits for the order. And isn’t that a strange thought - Silver waiting _for an order._ She scoffs, shaking her head, as she loads the first rifle.

 

 _“_ Silver,” Flint’s voice is unmistakeable, traveling all the way up here, calm even with the battle going on around her, “On my mark."

 

Silver listens, her finger on the trigger, breathes in and out. When Flint calls, she fires.

 

The bullet hits the wheel, and she can imagine the wood splintering - but instead, she sees the man at the helm.

 

He jumps away, but cautiously reproaches it.

 

She picks up the next gun, loads it, and fires again. This time, the man falls down, clutching at his shoulder.

 

If Flint’s plan works, with every bullet, she imagines herself that much closer to five million pieces of gold. Silver picks up the next gun, aims it at the next man.

 

This shot goes through his head, and the man collapses next to the first one in a spray of blood. Now that the helm is spinning, no man brave enough to guide it, the Urca turns rapidly towards the shoreline it had been hugging. The Walrus is in position to block its wind, and there’s nowhere for the ship to go - not unless it wants to collide headfirst into them.

 

Even over the wind and cannon fire, they can hear the moment the Urca is dragged into too shallow waters, the hull grinding with a low screech on the rocks below. It’s been wrecked on the shore line that Flint had so carefully mapped out all these past nights.

 

A cheer resounds within the men below, and Silver sets down the rifle.

 

  * ••



 

Flint watches as the ship is wrecked on the shoals. “Fire another shot to the lower decks,” she orders, and the men rush to comply, greedy at the prospect of the gold. “I want them to regret that they didn’t surrender while they still had the chance.”

 

“Fire!” Gates calls, and a vicious cry carries out through the men as they hurry, letting another shot go. The Urca’s deck splinters, and Flint holds her breath. They’re so close -

 

From behind her, Gates makes a worried sound. “If you keep on firing like that, you risk sinking her.”

 

Eye pressed to the spyglass, Flint says, “I’m aware of the risk. Order the men to continue fire.”

 

“It’s too much of a risk,” Gates argues, and Flint can feel his eyes on the back of her neck. “Captain.”

 

She turns slightly. “Mr. Gates. Order the men.”

 

When Gates doesn’t say anything, she shouts down, “Fire another round!”

 

The men are eager, and they continue to pack the cannons, letting another volley hit the Urca. All the men on board the other ship are either cowering or waiting for them to board her. She won’t give them the chance.

 

“ _Captain_ ,” Gates repeats, and he catches her arm before she can swing around. “ _A word_.”

 

Flint glances down at the men looking up at them, waiting for her orders. Gate’s hand tightens on her elbow, and Flint gives a sharp nod, going to the cabin, Gates hot on her heels.

 

  * ••



 

Silver makes it back down the rigging, and her legs nearly shake with relief at having made it back to the deck. “Did it work?” she asks Muldoon, who’s passing by, carrying several guns.

 

“The captain’s gone in the cabin,” he says. “We’re getting ready to go over there now, get that gold before she sinks. Are you - ?”

 

Silver had been looking over at the door, but Muldoon is holding out a pistol for her to take. “Well, I don’t believe the captain has gone as far as to appoint me to the vanguard, no,” Silver answers for him, but she puts the pistol at her side anyways. “Is Gates in there with her?”

 

“Yeah,” Muldoon says. “Nice shot, by the way.”

 

“Thank you,” Silver says, but she’s distracted by the thought of what could possibly make Flint and Gates leave the battle at a time like _this._

 

  * ••



 

“It was never about the gold,” Gates hisses, and he actually slams his hands down on her desk. “You were never going to recover it - you _lied_ to us, to me!"

 

“You know as well as I do that once that gold was in those men’s hands, they would have never worked for any of us ever again,” Flint spits back. “That gold is most useful to them when it’s not in their pockets, when it’s invested in their futures instead. We bring them to Nassau, with the fort at our backs, we have the chance at achieving a victory that will lead us far - “

 

“Jesus Christ,” Gates says, and he gives a hollow laugh. “You truly believe that? You think that you could steal this gold from them - make it unattainable, and they would still follow you?”

 

“I’m doing this for all of them,” Flint says sharply. “I’m doing this in their interests. You don’t have to believe me - "

 

  * ••



 

“- look!” The shout travels through the deck, and both Silver and Muldoon’s heads move to look at its source. Logan is standing at the railing, looking at the Urca with an aghast expression. “She’s sinking!"

 

They glance at each other, and both hurry to the railing.

 

True to the shouts, the Urca is taking on water at a far faster rate. They watch as the Urca starts to take on more and more water, the ship tilting dangerously. The men on board are running back and forth now, but with their launches destroyed by the cannon fire, most of them are jumping into the water, delaying the inevitable.

 

“Maybe the captain didn’t realize,” Muldoon starts, but he hears the words himself. Silver knows that he’s thinking what the rest of them are: Flint doesn’t make mistakes, especially not like this. This was intentional.

 

She watches as men on the Walrus start to shoot at the men in the water. It’s a horrifying scene of carnage as the screaming starts, men drowning in water and their own blood and they just _watch_ , as the Urca takes on more and more water. She can nearly imagine the water gushing into its hold, mixing with the gold there -

 

“Sails!” The calls come, and with slowly dawning dread, they turn to see the Spanish warship that has appeared on the other size, looming on the horizon. Silver can practically feel the fear that flickers through the crew at the sight.

 

  * ••



 

“- by sinking the ship, we get Spain to retaliate,” Flint argues, and Gates throws up his hands, "We know the British have been anchored up north for months now, and with a bit of luck, they would strike - if not, we have a better chance at matching their force in our own territory! “

 

“You’re speaking of a war,” Gates finishes for her, and he looks horrified. “You’re taking away this gold away to have your _war_?”

 

“The war would buy us an opportunity to hit them while they’re distracted,” Flint insists, “For a future not measured in days or weeks, but in _years_ , a chance to take the fight to them! With a victory in Nassau, we can ride on the stories that they tell, send fear through their numbers - "

 

He points a shaking finger at her. “You don’t see just how - you don’t see how _wrong_ you are.”

 

“I see the possibility there,” Flint says, “How can you not?”

 

Gates exhales, shaky but resolute, and he takes a step to the door. “I can’t let you get away with this - "

 

  * ••



 

Silver pushes past the men. They’re all too stunned by the sights on either side - the treasure sinking, or the inevitable doom on the other end.

 

She makes her way to the captain’s cabin, and she pushes open the door. Silver is greeted by the sight of Flint on the ground, Gates in her lap, his neck at an awkward angle. The scene kicks in, and she slams the door shut behind her, sliding the lock.

 

“No,” Silver says, as Flint lifts her face, “ _No_ \- "

 

She can see the tear stains running down Flint's cheeks. “I’m sorry,” Flint says, only it’s to Gate’s dead face, his eyes wide and unseeing. “I’m sorry - “

 

“Captain,” Silver says quietly, urgently, “You can’t do this, not now - “

 

Flint is still looking down at the dead body in her lap, and when Silver falls to her knees by her, tries to drag Gates away, Flint hits away her hands. “Stop - don’t -“

 

“ _Captain_ ,” Silver hisses, “Listen to me - "

 

“There’s no way out of this,” Flint says, her eyes unfocused. “No gold, no crew - I killed him - “

 

“There’s _always_ a way,” Silver tells her firmly. “Always. Nothing is inevitable here."

 

  * ••



 

Silver opens the door, and Flint walks out in the light.

 

The men are gathered at the rail, and they all turn around. “Captain,” one of them says. “The war ship - “

 

“We need to leave,” Flint says, and she injects steel into her voice, even though she knows her face must be blotchy, her eyes red. “If we disengage now, we have a chance at fleeing - "

 

A cry rises among the men. “But the gold!“

 

“ - we can wait for it to sink, then scavenge - “

 

“The gold is gone,” Silver says from beside her, and the men quiet. “We need to survive this first.”

 

The men closest to them look suspicious. “Where’s Mr. Gates?” another asks.

 

“Mr. Gates,” Flint says, “Disobeyed my orders, and put the future of this crew in jeopardy. He’s dead.”

 

That makes the men fall into a stunned silence. “Dead?” one of them echoes.

 

“We need to leave,” Flint repeats, aware of the rapidly approaching warship like it’s already upon them, but as soon as she opens her mouth, one of the men draws a gun, and points it right at her. She doesn’t even know his name.

 

“What exactly do you hope to accomplish by doing this?” Silver snaps, even though it’s clear. “This isn’t going to get any of out of here - “

 

“She gets what’s coming for her,” the man says, “She fucked with us, killed Gates, she answers for it right here - “

 

“ - there’s no reason - “

 

“Captain Flint,” he says, and it’s as though the worried murmurs of the crew disappear as Flint stares down the barrel of the gun, “I hereby accuse you of tyrannical crimes against your crew-”

 

Flint closes her eyes. She doesn’t want to spend her last few moments listening to some mutinous fuck. The faint screaming from the Urca fades away, until all she can hear is her own heartbeat in her ears, the steady thrum of life still in her body.

 

She thinks of pale blue eyes, long fingers over a page - a soft smile.

 

She’ll see her again soon.

 

Flint hears the gunshot.

 

Flint opens her eyes, and the man in front of her is dead.

 

She turns, and Silver’s still holding the smoking pistol.

 

Flint looks into her blue eyes - a darker shade, and the smile is more a grimace - as Silver says, “Apologies. But as you can see, we need to get out of here, _now_.”

 

  * ••



 


	2. the fort

**** The crew puts them in the brig. As the door slams shut between them and the daylight, Flint lets her head drop against the wall where musty-smelling water trickles down the surface. They had tied her hands, but apparently, had deemed Silver not enough of a threat to do the same - even though they’ve both killed men on this crew.

 

“This,” Silver says from the other side of the cell, “Is not quite how I pictured this venture going.” 

 

Flint’s too exhausted to even respond to that. She lets herself drift to sleep, right there in the cell, her head shifting as the ship rocks under them. 

  
  


  * ••



  
  


When she wakes up, she can feel from the shift in the ship’s movements that they’re far out at sea. Silver’s across from her, and as if she can tell when Flint’s awake, she glances over. “They haven’t decided to kill us yet,” Silver says, nodding towards the hunk of bread on the ground between them. “Nor has the warship appeared to catch up with us.”

 

The ship has DeGroot, Joji, a few others who are capable sailors, Flint thinks to herself. If they can stay ahead of the eastern wind, they’ll be able to duck into Nassau, be protected by the fort.

 

Perhaps the men are too busy fleeing to hold a trial. Perhaps they’re too limited in number to come to a consensus. Either way, they’re stuck in here until something happens, so Flint watches Silver tap on the top of her boot where her leg is folded close to her body, fingers drumming against the leather, and they wait.

  
  


  * ••



  
  


"You could’ve let me die,” Flint says finally. “They would’ve had their revenge on me, and they would’ve sailed out of there. You could still be a member of the crew.” 

 

Silver scoffs, the sound ringing through the enclosed space. “I was never a part of  _ the crew _ ,” she says. “I had a very specific task. Once this was over, I was to leave and be rid of this life for good, if you recall. I’m not built for this life.” 

 

“I don’t think so,” Flint says. “They like you. You just shot one of the crew in front of them, and yet you’re down here with me instead of sinking to the bottom of the sea."

 

“You murdered your own quartermaster, and they put you down here just the same,” Silver says, blunt. “I don’t believe that they like you very much either.”

 

Flint studies the rivulet of water dripping down the wall once again. “I suppose not. Still, it’s not easy to walk away from this, even if you have no interest in the life, no strings keeping you tethered.” 

 

“I doubt I fit in that category."

 

“I think once you’ve tasted the sea, you can never go back,” Flint tells her, measuring her words. “I think once the salt has touched your lips, nothing else will satisfy that thirst.” 

 

“That’s awfully poetic, captain,” Silver says, “But I’m afraid I’ve tasted far enough for my liking.” 

 

  * ••



 

In the absence of anything else to do, they seem trapped with their own thoughts and each other.

 

“Perhaps I did it because I would’ve been driven mad with guilt over your death,” Silver says sarcastically, and Flint folds her hands over her lap. “Perhaps your ghost would have followed me for the rest of my days - “

 

Flint stays silent, even as Silver lashes out. 

 

A short time later, the woman says, quieter, “They would’ve killed me too anyways. No use for a thief anymore.” 

 

One of the crew comes to deliver them more bread, stale and soggy, as well as a tankard of water. Flint drinks, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Silver tears the bread into tiny pieces, only some of which she eats.

 

The wound on her chest throbs a little, and although it’s healed enough that she thinks she’s safe from infection, it keeps her from deep sleep. The cut on Silver’s forehead heals - an injury from a struggle, perhaps when they put them in the brig to start with - and they wait. 

 

The day after that, Silver says, “We’re far more similar, you and I, than I think either of us are strictly comfortable admitting."

 

Flint picks up her head at that. “We’re not the same,” she says, low, warning. Silver had killed a man for her, sure - but who is she, to put trust in a relationship built on blood?

 

“Compared to the men up there?” Silver scoffs, and her boots scrape against the damp ground. “It’s incredible how even in this moment, you close yourself off. I’d say right now, we’d be far better off as partners in this."

 

Flint thinks of Martin’s face before she can think better of it. She won’t tarnish the one good thing she has left. Silver must read something on her face, for then she asks, “Are you thinking about him? Your husband?” 

 

“What are you asking?"

 

“I’ve heard the stories,” Silver says. “They say he’s a priest you kidnapped from some nice British family.” 

Flint snorts. “He’s hardly a priest.” Exhaustion and grief tempered with the low pang of hunger in her stomach has made her tongue loose, but she won’t give Silver any more than that. She’s shown herself too far these past few days, and if she’s going to die, she’s going to have some dignity while she does it.

 

“I knew a priest once,” Silver says, “But I knew him after he left the church, and he was working as a butcher in one of the poorest neighborhoods in London. He would close his shop at two in the afternoon every day, take these long walks down the main road. He would sing these hymns as he walked among the smoke and rubble, blood still underneath his nails and dotting his apron, and he had the most beautiful voice."

 

Flint closes her eyes, listens to the ship creak, the sound of Silver’s voice. 

  
  


  * ••



  
  


She dreams about the sound Gates’s neck made when it snapped under her arms, sees the light die from his eyes all over again, time slowed down as she gasps with what she’s done. His head lolls in his arms, and like before, Flint presses her lips to the top of his head, trying to beg forgiveness - 

 

Then his body melts into something else, something far more cruel to imagine. The breath catches in her lungs, as her fingers tangle in long strands of blonde hair instead. She doesn’t want to look, but she’s forced to see her face, and she wrenches her head away with an anguished howl - 

 

Flint jolts upright, breathing heavily from the nightmare. The first thing she sees is Silver, who’s seated across from her. Silver’s eyes move under her eyelids, her face pale and drawn as her long fingers clench in her lap.

 

Their legs are pressed together in these tight quarters, and as Flint tries to remember how to breathe again, she feels Silver’s leg thrumming against her own, sees the way her throat - a shade paler than the rest of her tanned skin - works when she swallows. She watches Silver sleep without thinking about it - not letting herself think about it.

  
  
  


  * ••



  
  


A few days later, Flint can tell that they’re approaching Nassau. Silver is upright again, her eyes darting from side to side as the ship slows down over the course of several hours. 

 

Flint waits while Silver paces. She doesn’t see the point in wasting her energy, especially if they’re just going to be put to death the moment they are summoned. She can hear the feet going across the deck above their heads as the ship is anchored, and then it’s quiet. 

 

Which is why she’s surprised when they go above deck, and the crew don’t push them overboard. “We’re sending you both to shore,” one of the men says, and Flint watches with muted fascination as they untie her hands.

 

They’re still far away from the harbor, and Flint notices, out of range of the guns. 

 

“What happened?” Silver asks, sounding less than thrilled at whatever faces them on shore. Flint rubs her wrists, turning to gaze upon the outline of Nassau’s fort. 

 

“Captain Vane has taken over the fort,” the man says, and Flint turns to look at him sharply. “Just sent his messenger back. The island’s a mess.” 

 

Flint exchanges a look with Silver before she can stop herself. “So you send us into the teeth of Vane’s cannons,” Silver says flatly. 

 

“You don’t have much to lose,” the man says.

  
  


  * ••



  
  


On shore, there are several armed men who meet them right at the docks. Silver recognizes some of the Ranger crew among them, looking every bit the fearsome pirate, but Vane himself is not among them. 

 

“This way,” one of them - pale eyes, stocky - says, leading them through the town, up towards the fort. 

 

Silver can hear the whispers of the people as they pass through. By now, everyone must know that the Walrus is back without gold - and perhaps that’s why Vane has summoned them. There are many questions to be answered, after all.

 

She looks up at Flint, who’s walking in front of her. Flint’s been too quiet for the past several days, caught in her own head every time Silver had looked over at her. For someone that Silver has seen convince a crew of a prize that she then took from under their noses and somehow is now  _ walking away from it, _ Flint has yet to gloat. 

 

They’re let into the fort, and Silver sees Flint lift her chin as they see who’s on the other side. “Vane,” Flint says, stopping, and the man looks right at her. The gates close behind them with an ominous clang, and the two captains square each other up. 

 

“Flint,” Vane says. “I was ready to blow your ship out of the water when you returned.”

 

“I was ready to burn down your ship down around you, but here you are instead," Flint says. “You’ve done me a favor.” 

 

Inexplicably, the ghost of a smile pases over his face. “So here you are,” Vane says. “No gold, no ship. Just your name.” 

 

“Neither do you," Flint replies. “What the fuck are you doing here in the fort?”

 

“I took it,” Vane says. 

 

“You  _ took it  _ \- "

 

“Instead of losing your mind, you should tell me why shouldn’t I use you and your woman there as target practice?” Vane drawls, and Silver has to resist the urge to take a step behind Flint. 

 

The men around them shift ever so slightly, and if Silver notices it, then she thinks Flint does as well. But they hear footsteps, and Silver looks to the passageway leading from the tunnels. Vane stops talking, just as Eleanor Guthrie emerges into the square. 

 

“Eleanor,” Flint says, her surprise evident on her face. “What happened?” 

 

“Captain Flint,“ Eleanor says. She’s flanked by two men, one of whom Silver recognizes as her right hand man, Mr. Scott. She glances at Silver, then back to Flint. “You’ve returned.” 

 

“I have,” Flint says. “ Eleanor - “

 

“Your men say you sank the gold on purpose,” Eleanor says, and she comes closer to Flint than Vane had. “Said you killed Gates. Why the fuck would did you do that?” 

 

“I did what had to be done,” Flint says, “ But we need to discuss what comes next - “

 

“ _ We, _ ” Vane says, “Will be discussing just exactly why we don’t dangle you over the edge of the fort. I bet your men would celebrate at the sight.”

 

“I told Charles that you would be taken in here,” Eleanor says, sending a flat look at Vane, “Despite your men’s recommendations. You have much explaining to do, captain, and I don’t think a dead woman will have many answers.” She’s looking at Flint, but Silver gets the feeling that she’s addressing Vane just as much. 

 

Flint’s eyes flit from Vane to Eleanor. “What a week I missed,” she says flatly. 

  
  


  * ••



  
  


“So he abandoned his ship to trick Hornigold, launching a surprise attack on the fort just as the watch changed, and then managed to get the support of most in the square to help keep him here,” Flint says. “Charles Vane did that?” 

 

They’re inside one of the fort cells now, re-outfitted more like an office. Eleanor sits behind a desk, Flint seated across from her. Vane had elected to go else where - especially after a warning look from Eleanor, who had obviously seen the potential for tensions to rise as always when he in the same room with Flint.

 

Silver has elected to stay standing, now leaning on the wall below the high-up window from somewhere behind her, one leg been so she has a foot against the wall. Flint can’t see her, but she can feel her gaze on them both. 

 

“Charles brought his crew to the fort,” Eleanor says, her eyes sharp. “They were able to oust Hornigold.”

 

“Who else decided to join you on this?” Silver asks, arms crossed. Eleanor’s eyes flit up to look at her, then back at Flint. 

 

“I hadn’t realized you had gotten so close with the thief,” she says, and Flint can hear Silver make some disparaging sound. “But for your information, I convinced Max, and she was able to sway the opinion of most in the town - ”

 

“In chasing my men and Hornigold’s out,” Flint finishes

 

“You convinced Max,” Silver repeats, but then she remains silent as Flint turns her head ever so slightly back towards her. 

 

“Tell me why I don’t listen to Charles,” Eleanor says. “Tell me why I don’t send you back outside this fort, let your men have their trial.” 

 

“You’ll do it because you see the sense in it,” Flint tells her, turning back. “Charles Vane is an animal. He has no concept of a future - “

 

“He understands enough so that when the chance came, he took it and followed through - "

 

“I suppose you’ll tell me now that Vane conceived of that plan without any of your influence,” Flint says after a moment, turning back to look at Eleanor. Her mouth twitches slightly at the jab. “I’m sure that’s what he told his men, at least. Let them think that he’s the one behind all of this. Let’s not pretend that Vane did any of this for the future of this place.”

 

“Charles has offered me control of the fort right alongside him,” Eleanor says, her nostrils flaring. “I took the opportunity to keep my seat here, and I took it. You know as well as I do that the men on this island respond to his name - ” 

 

“I just don’t understand why -“ Flint cuts off, reigning herself in, before saying, "I had Hornigold on our side, the fort in control. So why did you feel it so necessary to align yourself with  _ him _ ?” 

 

“Why did you find it necessary to sink the gold?” Eleanor snaps. “You nearly went through with the plan - our plan - and you decide to sink it on a whim?” 

 

“It was thought-out, actually,” Silver says.

 

Flint doesn’t even bother turning around to glare out her. “I sunk that gold for the same reason you aligned yourself with Vane. You and I both know that Hornigold’s men have become complacent from their perch in this place, ready to leave at the slightest difficulty. I made sure to keep his men in this place, have them ready for when the time came - “

 

“He’s never been comfortable with your methods as a captain,” Eleanor says. “How would you expect to explain to him when you returned to this place with no gold? How would your  _ vision _ keep him in place?” 

 

That drags a harsh laugh out of Flint’s chest. “Hornigold doesn’t like me because I’m not a man,”  she says evenly. “I had planned on having Mr. Gates deal with him, when the time came, to keep him on my side, because  _ he _ would be able to see the importance of what comes next. After the Urca was sunk, we were trailed by her warship for at least a few hours - ”

 

“You provoked a Spanish  _ warship?“ _ Eleanor cuts herself off, and she pushes back in her chair to stand up. “When the fuck were you going to bring that up?” 

 

“We still have a small window of time,” Flint says, as Eleanor grips onto the back of the chair. “The Walrus was able to successfully navigate past, and given it will take them longer to cut around the island chain."

 

“How long do we have?” Eleanor asks, her mouth in a grim line. 

 

“Three days at most,” Flint says, and she can hear Silver’s foot drop from where it had been propped against the wall, hitting the stone floor with a thud. “We need to prepare to fend it off utilizing the fort, but now it seems that I have Charles Vane to somehow convince."

 

“You don’t have a crew who would follow you for a moment,” Eleanor says crossly, “You’ve just sunk their shares right in front of them. Did you account for that in your fucking plan?” 

 

“Yes, I’m aware,” Flint says, “That’s where Hornigold’s men in the fort would have been far more preferable."

 

“Not all of your men were on the ship,” Silver pipes up, and Eleanor’s eyes go to her. “Gates had several men stay behind, didn’t he?” 

 

“When, exactly, has the thief started spouting ideas?” Eleanor asks Flint, who finds she doesn’t have an explanation. 

 

“Billy and the others,” Silver says, stepping forward until Flint can see her. “They are few, but they will have no doubt been at work gathering the support of new recruits."

 

“Hornigold would’ve joined up with them by now,” Eleanor says. “He would’ve told them of how Vane threw him in the gutters, how I’m the bitch that backstabbed him. Now that you’ve shown up with no gold, they’ll be saying how Flint is nothing but a tyrant after all. Not to mention you’ve killed your own quartermaster.”

 

“Well,” Silver says, “I didn’t say it was going to be easy now, was it?” 

  
  


  * ••



  
  


Eleanor leaves, presumably to find Vane again. Flint and Silver are left in the cell-turned-office, two of Vane’s men remaining outside in case they were to try to make a break for it, she supposes. Silver has never been inside the fort before today, but she thinks that it’s rather damp. 

 

“Care to answer her question now?” Flint asks, still in the chair. 

 

Silver turns from where she was contemplating the iron bars over the window high up on the wall. “Pardon?” 

 

“When, exactly, did you decide that you have any authority?” Flint asks sharply, and Silver opens her mouth indignantly. “I’ll not have you try to manipulate Eleanor, especially not now."

 

“Oh _ , for _ \- I might be the closest thing you have to a partner in this moment,” she bites out, “Yet you would push me away rather than accept my help, especially given your current footing with most everyone on this island?” 

 

“I don’t need your help,” Flint says hotly, as Silver goes over to the second chair, sitting down with a heavy thump. “Let me remind you that  _ you _ are not on such steady footing yourself."

 

Silver laughs. She knows she’s playing with fire here, especially as Flint’s jaw clenches, but she might be on trial for murder by dawn, so she says right back, “The men might distrust me, dislike me, but they _ despise _ you. You’ve just made yourself the enemy of everyone on that ship, even on this island - you promised everyone a future, and you just sank it in front of them - "

 

“I think you forgot you shot one of their men right in front of them,” Flint starts, but then Silver sees something flash across on her face at Silver’s words. “If this doesn’t work, if Eleanor can’t convince Vane, I think you will find - "

 

“You seem to have an awfully large problem with me saving your life, captain,” Silver says, and she can see the bottom of Flint’s jaw start to color from a dull flush that’s climbing up her neck. “But what I find curious is that look on your face, just now. It -  _ bothers _ you, doesn’t it?”

 

“I’m in no mood for games,” Flint says warningly, but there it is again. 

 

“That look on your face fight now,” Silver says, "I thought you were impervious to such - to such  _ talk _ . But you care, don’t you?” 

 

Flint stays silent, something furious growing, as Silver continues, “You care what they think, don’t you? Out there, they drag your name through  _ the mud _ . They talk about the feared Captain Flint, the woman tyrant, Nassau’s villain- "

 

“Silver,” Flint warns again, and her face remains impassive, but Silver can see how her hands are curled over the arms of the chair. “Stop talking.”

 

“You pretend like you’re unaffected by it all, but really, it must eat away at you,” Silver marvels, and she leans back in her chair. “God - it must be  _ awful _ , being you - “

 

Flint stands up, the chair pushed back with a screech by her movement. “Do not  _ presume _ to know me,” Flint snarls, but there’s the briefest flicker of something in her eyes, something that Silver sees. She’s always been good at this - seeing weakness, and prodding. 

 

“I don’t know you,” Silver counters, and she stands up just as well. Flint stays still, so Silver takes the risk to cross over, getting as close to the captain as she dares. “You don’t know me. But I might just see you, captain - and that must  _ terrify _ you - “

 

She’s cut off by Flint closing the gap between them, and she seizes Silver’s shirt. Silver doesn’t quite understand what’s happening until her back is slammed up against the cool wall, the pressure making her gasp as Flint’s furious face is suddenly right there in front of her. 

 

“We’ve been here before,” Silver gasps, her breath stuck somewhere between her chest and throat as Flint presses her more against the wall, hands tight around the tops of her arms. “You’re awfully unoriginal - “

 

But unlike this time, it isn’t all anger in Flint’s eyes - there’s something trapped there, and Silver isn’t as afraid of her as she thought she would be. 

 

“You  _ listen here _ ,” Flint growls, her voice barely louder than the drip of the water in the corner of the cell. “I don’t know what game you’re trying to play here, but don’t even attempt at manipulating me, or whatever you think that you can try here - “

 

Silver's hands come up in between them, meaning to push Flint away - but then her fingers curl into the front of Flint’s shirt, and and then there’s surprise in Flint’s eyes at the gesture, as she stops. This close, Silver can see that there’s a ring of dark green around her pupils, the color of a reed in a riverbank of spring mud. 

 

“I’m not trying anything, captain,” Silver says. Flint’s skin is hot under her fingertips from where her shirt had parted. This close, she can feel Flint’s heartbeat thrumming, the only sign of life with how Flint is as motionless as a statue in this moment, and Silver’s touching the marble as a sculptor might brush dust off his masterpiece, if the masterpiece was just as soon as burst into flames. Unlike last time they were in this position, Flint doesn’t have the luxury of a knife at her throat to keep Silver from adding, “You’re upset because I’m  _ right _ .” 

 

There’s that feeling again, curling from somewhere below her breastbone, pulling her in more than her fingers in the material of Flint’s shirt. The moment extends, nearly like it’s looping between them, as Flint lifts her head ever so slightly, her nose bumping against Silver’s. Flint’s grip tightens on her shoulders, her thumbs digging into the soft flesh. Silver can feel her draw in a shaky breath - and she’s never one to pass up this sort of opportunity, be it man or enraged captain, and so she lifts her face too, and for a moment, her lower lip drags along the curve of Flint’s square chin. If this is what she needs to do - she just has to move her face up a little more, as Flint’s eyes widen ever so slightly, her breath warm on Silver’s mouth - 

 

The door clangs from behind, and as quickly as she was slammed against the wall, Flint lets her go like she’s been scalded. Silver’s hands are left still in the air between them, Flint having pried herself from her grasp in between breaths, as the door to the cell opens.

 

Vane walks in, and although nothing happened, per se, he glances between them with a faintly amused expression. 

 

“What is it.” Flint’s voice echoes from where she’s facing away from Silver. 

 

“Eleanor told me of how you plan to conscript your men back,” Vane says, and if Silver wasn’t still fixated on the invisible pressure she still feels from Flint’s hands on her, she think she’d be surprised when he continues, “And if she deems it possible enough, so do I."

 

“What did she promise you out of it?” Flint asks then, flat. 

 

“I remain in control of the fort,” Vane says. “That, and she will vouch for my crew’s interests in the future.” 

 

Silver half expects Flint to argue about this, but instead, the captain says, “I’ll prepare to depart,” and she walks out the door behind Vane, undeterred by the guards there. 

  
  


  * ••



  
  


Vane takes them back to the square near the fort’s entrance, where Mr. Scott and Eleanor are waiting. It takes a moment for Silver’s eyes to adjust to the light, but then she sees the third figure standing with them. 

 

Silver stops short of them. “Silver,” Max says. She has a red shawl draped around her, and she pulls it around her as Silver emerges from the bowels of the fort’s tunnels. “It is good to see you.” 

 

Silver considers her, as Max meets her eyes steadily. The woman’s betrayal had stung - more than she would like to admit - and seeing her here, now, the wound is scraped open. She settles on a curt nod in reply. There will be time for those words when there isn’t a warship looming over the horizon. 

 

“Max has a spy in Havana who has been keeping an eye on the operations run through there,” Eleanor says, and she nods to Flint. “Those estimates will likely confirm the numbers and weapons we are facing from the warship.”

 

“If we can bolster the men from the interior, we can start preparing for an invasion,” Flint says, with a sideways look at Vane, “In case the line doesn’t hold up.”

 

Vane’s lip curls. “I’ll be on the Ranger.” 

 

Truth be told, Silver has had limited interactions with Billy - let alone the other Walrus men here - but it’s not as though she has many other options. “Are we going out there now, then?”

 

Eleanor scoffs, and Flint looks like she’s a moment away from doing the same. “Yes, and you’re going to do your fucking best to convince them,” she says. “We need all the men that yours have convinced from the beach. Take a horse from outside the tavern.” 

 

“If I’m successful, we’ll send word to the tavern,” Flint says, and starts striding to the gate.

 

“Don’t let her get shot,” Vane says, and it takes Silver a moment to realize he’s talking to her. “Spanish warship bearing down on the island, we’re going to need every last pirate to defend her.”

 

Silver follows Flint instead. If they’re to do this, there’s no need to remind them of the threat bearing down on them, and she especially doesn’t want to consider what sort of threat would make Charles Vane appear to  _ team up _ with Flint. 

 

Outside of the fort, Flint barely looks at her. The air is thick, humid around them, and that’s not even counting the words pressing on Silver’s tongue with a sort of urgency that’s she surprised at herself by as they walk. The sand gets kicked up as they go down the hill from the fort, clouding the air near their feet. 

 

Perhaps that’s it. If they’re to succeed at this, they’ll need to be focused - and she needs to know now if Flint is going to be distracted.

 

Silver says, “If we have a problem, because of what happened- "

 

“Nothing happened,” Flint snaps, then her expression flattens again as she turns to the rest of the island, reduced in the distance to shades of green. “The men will have likely been stationed to the north of here."

 

If that’s all she wants to say, Silver is unable to do much more than follow her, because what else is she going to do?

  
  


  * ••



  
  


They find Billy and the others on the outskirts of the town, just coming up over the hills. Flint had found the horse - only one, of course - so Silver had spent the time in the back of the saddle, her hands just barely touching Flint’s waist, trying to keep as much distance between them while staying on the horse. She’s unsure of what either of them would do if she were to lean forward, plaster her front to Flint’s back, but she’s not too keen on finding out. 

 

She’s not unfamiliar with the concept - of women like that. She’s not sure if Flint is even one of those women - despite the rumors, she does have a husband out in the interior, and perhaps that’s part of it. But fidelity aside, Silver can practically taste that there’s something beyond the obvious, and it doesn’t help that each time she looks at Flint, there’s something unfamiliar churning inside her, beyond her sense screaming for her to get far away from such an obvious danger. 

 

There had been some relations between the women back in the brothel that she had known about, and of course she had known about Max and Eleanor nearly as long as she had been in Nassau -  heard of how the relationship had developed before Max was madame even. There was the way that Anne Bonny had looked at Max, too, when she was nearly hidden at her side, her eyes glinting with a different sort of interest. There was certainly an element of ease that came with the practice between two women. Perhaps it was born of the simple reality that it was something less dangerous than seeking out pleasure with a man. 

 

Convenience, she could understand. But it was everything else that came with it that Silver couldn’t wrap her mind around, how such a relationship could still unfold even at the possible cost. She had seen how Eleanor and Max had managed to hurt each other, time and time again, seen the way they had been able to get under each other’s skin like no other. Silver couldn’t understand what any of it was worth at that risk - not that she understood how anyone could be worth that sort of toil, man or woman. She’s never been in love - and if that’s what it gets her, she never wants to be. 

 

With Flint, anything about her comes tinged with danger. Especially with a situation as complicated in between them - she thinks to her earlier assessment, that if Flint wasn’t interested, she wouldn’t have held onto Silver  _ like that _ \- but she still couldn’t understand what had happened back in the fort. Pleasure was to be simple, and when Silver thought that she could ease the situation between them by offering her body up to the captain, why wouldn’t she take advantage of it? 

 

But there had been something hesitant in Flint’s eyes, back there. Something tells her that there are other motivations at play. Perhaps Flint sees it as a sin. Perhaps she is unwilling to admit it to herself, let such elements come into the light. Maybe it’s Silver herself that Flint cannot comprehend.

 

What bothers her is that she can’t explain the moment back in the fort on her own end. There had been no reason for such a moment to occur - no matter what Silver had told herself - and she had been caught off guard by the want that had coursed through her at the feeling of Flint against her. It had been far from taking simple pleasure - and that, Silver needs to find out, and she’s not sure what she’ll find. 

 

Of course, when was anything about Flint ever simple?

 

They come to the top of the hill, and movement catches Silver’s eye. Flint slows the horse to a stop, and then men begin to emerge from the vegetation. Silver keeps her eye around them as the men, about a dozen of them, stop around them, most of them already having guns or swords drawn despite the fact that there’s just two of them. She recognizes Dufresne and Joshua among the crowd, both looking just as grim as the rest of them. 

 

After a moment, Flint sets down the reins, and Silver takes the cue to get off the horse. Flint lands on the ground beside her, just as Billy comes to the front of the crowd. 

 

“Flint,” Billy says, and he hasn’t shaved since they’ve last seen him, the starting of a beard making him look even more of a pirate - or perhaps it’s the belt of guns slung over his broad shoulders. “You’ve returned.” 

 

“Is Hornigold among you?” Flint questions, looking past Billy.

 

“He’s back at our headquarters,” Billy says, and he glances at Silver. “I presume you’re coming from the fort, then?” 

 

“What headquarters?” Flint asks instead, and a line appears in her brow as she focuses on him. 

 

Something flickers across Billy’s face. “We’re stationed around Mr. McGraw’s house."

 

The men around them grip onto their weapons just a little tighter, and Flint takes a breath in, then releases it. “Take me there,” she orders, and despite the fact Silver knows they’re being escorted and Flint technically has no right to be giving such orders, Billy complies. 

  
  


  * ••



 

Billy leads them into the interior on foot, the horse being taken by one of his men. The entire time, Silver tries to catch up to Flint without being too obvious about it, but the woman keeps a brisk stride, so Silver is forced behind.

 

They come up to a cottage, and a dark-haired man is outside. His arms are folded over his chest as he watches them approach, an unreadable expression on his face. Another man with grey hair comes out from behind him, a sword at his waist, but Silver doesn’t pay him much attention as he and Flint exchange a few words before Flint goes to the other man. 

 

Silver realizes that he must be the Mr. McGraw that she’s heard so much about. From the distance, the man’s face still visibly softens when Flint comes close, and although Silver can’t see Flint’s expression from here, she can only wonder if such tenderness is reflected - and she’s struck by how much she wants to see Flint looking anything like that, if such a thing is even possible. 

 

“You’re still around,” Billy interrupts at her side, and Silver drags her eyes away to look at him. “You’re still following Flint?"

 

“Billy,” Silver replies, “Pardon me for asking, but why haven’t you killed us?"

 

“That man there, he offered his house as a base for us in exchange for us bringing Flint to him as soon as she came back. We keep our word, after all.” Billy looks at Silver, and his eyes are serious. “That woman will betray you as she has the rest of us."

 

Silver is well aware of that particular fact, and the fact that she’s caught up in all of this just contributes to the tugging feeling under her skin. Martin and Flint disappear into the house as she says, “What about now that Flint’s back?"

 

“Well,” Billy says, “The men will call a trial tonight.” He looks over at the grey-haired man, who’s directing some of the men to the side, “Hornigold will likely take control of Flint’s ship, and we’ll go back on the account.” 

 

“Just like that?"

 

Billy scoffs. “The men have forgiven her for other crimes, so why wouldn’t they this?” 

 

For a man who calls those pirates brothers, Silver is surprised at his tone. “What past crimes?”

 

Billy glances up at the closed door of the cottage. “Did any of the men back on the ship ever tell you about the Maria Aleyne?”

 

The name is vaguely familiar, but Silver shakes her head. “Was it a past prize?”

 

“Flint had us hunting for months on end, seeking out this ship,” Billy says. “She said that it was filled with riches, everything from gold to tobacco - some rich British fuck sending his goods to Savannah. We track her, finally engage her. She’s armed to the teeth, and we lost many good men even before we boarded her."

 

His eyes flicker to the door again. “We went below to her hold, only then we realized that she was carrying barely anything more than cheap timber and the crew’s stash of rum. The men were discontent with this, obviously - and that’s when she came up on deck, up from the cabins below.”

 

“Flint?” Silver asks, and Billy’s eyes go back to her.  

 

“One of the men approached her to demand why this ship, why the Maria Aleyne." He stops, as if caught in the memory. "It was night when we came across her, so you couldn’t see it as first. When Flint stepped forward into the moonlight, we could see that she was covered in blood. Her hands were dripping with it, her sword drenched so dark that it looked like stone. We had already suppressed her crew, and Flint had us take no quarter so there was no one left to tell us who it was. Gates ordered us to collect the timber and cut loose, and Flint disappeared into her cabin until we got back to Nassau.” 

 

It sounds something straight out of one of the many tales they tell about Flint in the corners of taverns, but Billy’s words make a shiver zip down Silver’s spine, and she feels a chill that is at odds with the weather. “What happened?” 

 

“Gates managed to smooth it over with the men, told them it was bad intel. But I saw how as soon as Flint made it on shore, Mr. McGraw was waiting for her,” Billy says. “Flint - and Mr. McGraw - sought out the Maria Aleyne, and it wasn’t for any prize. They sought her out to kill whoever was on board.”

 

“I’d say that that sounds like some ghost story, only it’s not a particularly good one if the men forgot all about it,” Silver says lightly to hide her unease. “If the men could forgive that, it’s not unreasonable that they would forgive her for the recent events, right?"

 

Something hardens in his eyes as Billy says, “Flint will answer for all of her crimes - especially for Gates. But for you, there still might be a chance that you can redeem yourself. I would suggest for your own good that you work towards that effect.” 

  
  


  * ••



 

For all the harsh words they had shared the last time they had seen each other, relief unfolds in Flint’s chest at the sight of Martin. She goes up to him, and although she doesn’t dare touch him in front of all the men, she can feel her expression slipping on the edges. 

 

“Welcome back,” Martin says, and Flint inhales sharply. 

 

“Martin - “ She can’t finish the sentence, all too aware of the eyes on them. “Can we go somewhere?” 

 

Martin must see how close she is to slipping, for he takes her arm and leads her into the house. She first see how the cottage is full of guns, the table pushed to the corner and covered in gunpowder, one of the chairs broken in the corner. Flint lets her eyes trace the bookshelves - pushed against the walls, scrapes on the earthen floor, so unlike the usually neat space that Martin kept. 

 

Flint looks back at him, and Martin gives her a wry smile. “I had forgotten how rough men can be.” He must see something flash across her face for he quickly adds, “I invited them to host their operations here once word reached me that some of your men were left behind.” 

 

“What are you doing?” she asks, helpless. “Those men are pirates, Martin - " 

 

"I knew that once you returned without that gold, you were going to need all that support you could get,” Martin argues, “If opening the house could lead to that, of course I was going to do that! Those men are your men - "

 

“They’re not going to be my men soon,” Flint says bluntly. “I killed Gates.” 

 

That makes Martin’s eyes widen. “Oh, love,” he says after a moment, and it’s too soft, enough so that Flint’s chest hurts at the sound, but as some small relief, he doesn’t try to comfort her, not now. 

 

“The men out there, they don’t know what to do with us,” Flint says, when the silence grows nearly too much to bear. “The men back on the ship would rather see us keelhauled than for me to take back my captaincy.” Her words feel like they’re being pulled out of her stomach as she finishes, “I just need to figure out how to convince Billy and Hornigold to join the forces to defend Nassau - Hal would have convinced them, but there has to be something - "

 

“Those men out there, they’ve been trapped here waiting for your leadership,” Martin says firmly. “Let me talk to them. These past few weeks, I have fed them, gained them followers from the interior. They’ll listen to me, even if I’m no pirate.“

 

“No,” Flint says instantly, “I won’t have you involved in this, and shelter aside, you don’t know those men like I do - “

 

“I think the time for you keeping me out of this mess has passed, hasn’t it?” Martin says dryly, and Flint can hear her jaw click shut. “I gave them a connection to Mr. Underhill, which they know is their best chance to keep any sort of resistance out here against the fort.”

 

Flint looks at him, at the smudge of dirt on his temple, the short strands of hair near his ears sticking to his face from sweat. When they first arrived here, she had sworn to keep him out of any pirate business - she had to keep him safe, and he was unaccustomed to that danger, not that he was too soft, but merely unequipped to deal with that world. 

 

She thinks that perhaps in the recent years, he has learned to equip himself for this. Martin looks resolute in this, and Flint might be stubborn, but so is he, as he meets her gaze steadily.

 

“You can disrupt their connection to Underhill?” she asks finally, and Martin’s mouth twitches. 

 

“Mr. Underhill, who I have been having tea with at least once a week for the last several years, whose son I gave French lessons last year when their tutor fell ill? Mr. Underhill, who when I came to him, easily sent a dozen men for my protection against the pirates camping out here? I would say that if those men out there know they were at risk to lose Mr. Underhill’s support through me, they would give me an opportunity to have a word.”

 

Flint looks at him, long enough so that he raises a dark eyebrow. “I forget how utterly cunning you can be,” she settles on, and Martin’s smile gives her the first hope she’s felt ever since she had first set eyes on the Urca. 

 

  * ••



 

Outside, Hornigold and the others are waiting. Flint catches sight of Silver leaning against one of the fence poles by Billy, her pale eyes meeting Flint’s for an instant before she looks past her at the gathering. 

 

“Captain Flint,” Hornigold says, and there’s the faintest curl to his lip. “Do you have anything to say before the men vote?” 

 

“I would actually like to have a word, captain,” Martin says from beside her. “If you will indulge me - “

 

They file into the cottage, Martin, Flint, Hornigold, and Billy, the latter casting incredulous looks at the older man. 

 

Flint holds the door open for another second without a word, and she can hear the footsteps behind her, as Silver slides into the room as well. 

 

Hornigold is the first to speak, with clear exasperation, “Mr. McGraw, this is most unorthodox - “

 

“Yes, but I must insist given the circumstances,” Martin says smoothly, and he glances at Flint for a moment before continuing. “I ask that for now, you listen to Captain Flint. She has informed me that in a few day’s time, there will be a Spanish warship at our shores seeking retribution for the Urca.”

 

Hornigold doesn’t flinch. “The Spanish have come before. We’ll be able to fend them off - “

 

“You don’t have the fort, the men are nowhere near disciplined enough, and you think you can fight off two hundred Spanish soldiers storming the beach?” Flint scoffs. “You and I both know that Nassau is ill-equipped to fend off such an invasion.”

 

“And yet, you’re the one who brought them here in the first place - “

 

“We can prepare the men, and we can have the fort running once again,” Flint says. “Your ranks were partly provisioned by Underhill’s men, were they not?”

 

“Half of our original men ran off when news came that the gold was sunk,” Billy says. “Including the men on the Walrus, we have what - eighty? Ninety total?”

 

Hornigold glances at Billy.  “Underhill might have given us men at the promise of a share in that gold, but he’s not about to defend a group of pirates,” Hornigold says, looking back at her. “What do you want, Flint?”

 

She decides to keep it direct. “I’ll remain in control on the Walrus,” she says, and Billy makes a disbelieving sound, “In command of our naval defense, backed by the Ranger and her crew. In exchange, Mr. McGraw here will arrange for more men from Mr. Underhill.”

 

Hornigold’s eyebrows go up. “You expect us to convince those men to let you remain as captain, after what you’ve done?”

 

“He can do it,” Flint says, jerking her chin at Billy, “Those men will listen to you both. We will have the support of the fort, and under my command, we have a chance at pushing away the warship.”

 

“I want control of the fort again,” Hornigold says. “I know you want Charles Vane in there as much as I do.”

 

Flint nods at him. “I can agree to that.”

 

She holds out her hand, but then Billy says, “Are we going to forget that she killed Gates, then?”

 

“The crimes of Captain Flint and her accomplice will be temporarily overlooked,” Hornigold tells him, and Billy’s eyes narrow. “I’ve decided to accept her terms, on the condition that she will eventually be put on trial.” 

 

He shakes Flint’s hand, and Billy leaves, throwing open the door to stalk away. Hornigold follows him, and as the door closes, Flint sees Silver, who’s been standing to the side and watching the proceedings. 

 

Flint turns to Martin. “You can get those men?” 

 

“I’ll set out for Underhill’s estate first thing in the morning” he promises. “He’ll listen to me.”

 

“How long do we have?”

 

Martin nods to the ground, where there are some bedrolls pushed to the side wall. “Hornigold and some of the others stay in here at night. They’ll be several hours at least.” He looks past Flint, then, and adds, “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced, miss - ?”

 

“It’s Silver,” the woman says. “An honor to meet you, Mr. McGraw.”

 

“She’s the thief,” Flint says, and Martin gives her a faintly amused look. “Silver, you’re going to go with Billy - “

 

“She can’t go out there, not when the men are still digesting these developments. She can stay here tonight,” Martin says. Flint narrows her eyes at him, but his face remains innocent-looking. “Miss, I do believe I am indebted to you for your service towards the captain these past weeks.”

 

“Don’t tell her that, she will certainly collect,” Flint grumbles, resigning herself to Silver’s presence for the afternoon, and Martin gives her a fond look before going over to the hearth. 

 

“You’re the one who stole the schedule?” he asks, and Silver’s gaze darts to Flint, then to the man’s back.

 

“Yes,” she confirms, before asking, “Is it true, then?”

 

“Silver,” Flint warns. 

 

Martin bends to pick up the kettle. “It’s all right. What is that?”

 

“That you’re an ex-priest, and the captain has kept you here pending your hefty ransom,” Silver answers before Flint can stop her. “Or are you a sorcerer that controls the captain to perform unholy sacrifices at sea? I’ve heard it both ways.”

 

Before Flint can truly throw her out, Martin laughs, straightening up. The sound is startled, as though it’s been pulled from his lungs, but not cruel. She can’t remember the last time she’s heard Martin laugh like that, and for a moment, it takes her back to a place far away from here. 

 

If she’s struck by the small, pleased smile that grows on Silver’s face in response, well, anything is hidden in the low candlelight that still manages to make Silver’s eyes glow from across the room. 

  
  


  * ••



  
  


Silver’s careful not to push too much, not with Flint there. Martin makes them tea, then brings them wine in dark, dust-covered bottles. Silver tells a far-fetched tale of a time she spent several months in Tortuga that had Flint rolling her eyes and Martin laughing all over again. In exchange, Martin had told her of the time he had tried to raise a goat here on the island, and it had escaped ten times in half as many days.

 

Flint had drunk and watched both of them, silent at the side of the room, feeling something stretch in her chest each time Silver grinned or Martin slapped a hand on his thigh, rolling the smooth wine on her tongue.

 

Soon after night falls outside, Martin gets up and directs Silver to the spare room, their voices muffled through the walls as Flint takes another drink. Martin makes his way back to the front room, and Flint stays in her chair. Outside, she can hear that the men have dispersed for the most part, but no one has come into the cottage yet, and she swirls around dregs in her cup. 

 

Martin sits across from her. “You might as well say it,” she says when he continues to look at her, and she finishes her drink. 

 

“You like her,” Martin says, his mouth twitching and Flint can already feel a flush climbing up her face.  “When you told me about this cunning thief, you neglected to mention her other appeals, dear.” 

“You’re worse than Eleanor.” 

 

“She’s quite beautiful,” Martin continues, and Flint refuses to look at the wooden door. “A bit of a mouth on her, doesn’t she? Though I suppose that only adds to the appeal for you.”

 

“I don’t know what you’re speaking of,” she retorts, even though she knows by now that the color on her neck is too vivid to deny. 

 

“I’ll lay off only because when she wasn’t asking about the curse I’ve placed on the island, she couldn’t keep her eyes off of you,” Martin says, and she doesn’t know what to do with  _ that  _ information, as he raises his cup. “I don’t suppose you’ve noticed though, have you?” 

 

"“Finish your drink,” Flint says, but she feels surprisingly playful, perhaps in part due to the warmth of the wine. “What about you, then? Can you look away from the pirate who’s invaded your parlor here?"

 

“Never,” Martin says, and there’s something in his eyes that swells the feeling in her chest. “I’ve invited her in, unconditionally."

 

Instead of answering, Flint rises. Martin sets down his cup, and when he takes her hand, letting her pull him up, Flint catches his mouth with hers. 

 

For all the times they share a bed when she’s ashore, they’re rarely physically intimate, and even less so with Flint initiating this. Martin makes a surprised sound in her mouth, but kisses her back, his hand coming to cup her face.  Feeling bold, she tugs his bottom lip between her teeth, insistent as her hand goes to the back of his head, fingers sliding in too-short hair. His touch is too gentle, not what she needs, and when she tries to push, deepening the kiss, he breaks away carefully. 

 

Pulling away just enough to look in her eyes, Martin asks, “Is there something else I should be asking you?”

 

Flint shakes her head. “No,” she tells him, “Just - please - “ and she kisses him again, trying to ignore how even now with him, she feels like she’s still searching for something, reaching in vain into the dark. She thinks that he feels it too, for even when he ducks his head to kiss her again, he kindly ignores the way that her hands eventually go lax on the back of his head, as she ends up leaning against his shoulder, breathing in his scent as he kisses her neck. 

 

As they go to the bedroom, she can hear a faint creak - almost like a door swinging shut. But when she glances in the direction of the spare room, the door is closed. After a moment, Flint closes the door as well. 

  
  


  * ••



  
  


When Silver wakes up the next morning, she can already hear how the house is now full of men bustling around, chatting and loading guns by the click of hammers and scraping of chairs against the ground. She lays on the clean sheets for a moment longer, before getting up to get dressed and tie her hair back. 

 

Mr. McGraw had kindly given her to a clean shirt into which she changes, shrugging her blue jacket over it. The latter had been a gift from Muldoon, out of all people - it had grown too small for him, he had claimed, tossing it at her during dinner one night on the Walrus. When Silver had put it on, it had already been stretched comfortably by wear and sea salt. When she glances at herself in the small mirror propped against the wall, she’s surprised by how much of a pirate she appears now, judging by her blurred reflection. Silver touches her earlobe and entertains the idea of piercing her ear like she’d seen some of the men do for a brief moment before she exits her room. If only the girls back at the brothel could see her now. 

 

She recognizes Dufresne by the shine of his bald head as he turns to look at her, holding several books and looking annoyed at the sight of her - but really, when is he not. “The captain is waiting for you out there,” he says, frowning when she pauses. “What?” 

 

“Did Mr. McGraw leave?” Silver queries instead. 

 

“I don’t know,” he says, then calls past her, “Joji, where the fuck is the list of the shot inventory - “

 

Outside, the sun is covered up by the clouds in the sky, the light filtered so that everything is muted in color. From across the clearing in front of the cottage, Silver instantly spots Flint, her red hair catching the sunlight as she turns. There’s a line in her brow as she talks to Hornigold, who is fully armed and holding the reins to a horse. Around them, there are rifles on the ground, an assortment of weaponry on the dirt. While Hornigold says something to the men by him, Flint picks up a pistol, studying the barrel before pocketing it. 

 

As Silver approaches, Hornigold leaves on his horse, and Flint turns to see her. “You’re late,” the captain tells her.

 

“I didn’t know you were expecting me, captain,” Silver says. “Did I miss Mr. McGraw?” 

 

What she doesn’t expect as a response is for Flint to pick up a sword from the ground and toss it at her. Silver just barely manages to catch it, as Flint says, “You’re a decent shot, but I have the suspicion that you’ve never held a sword in your life.”

 

“Well, not  _ never _ ,” Silver says, as Flint starts to walk, and she follows right beside her, the sword heavy in her hand. “One of the men left behind a sword in the brothel once after a night of debauchery. We used it to defend ourselves against this massive snake - this great yellow beast who would come crawling up the banister and up around your neck if you weren’t careful. He was actually quite gentle, but it’s not a comforting sight to wake up to a snake looking you in the face - "

 

Flint cuts her off. “You’re going to learn how to use it to defend yourself, not just against snakes,” she says bluntly. She stops just as they reach a clearing, the grass making way for soft sand that Flint plunges the blade of her sword into.  

 

As Silver watches, she starts to shrug off her coat, rolling up her sleeves. From where her shirt slips a little from the movement, she can see the pale curve of Flint’s shoulder, covered in freckles, the edge of a still-healing wound peeking out - and was that the dark ink of a tattoo crawling up her bicep? 

 

Then Flint adjusts her clothing, and she briefly mourns the loss of visible skin before putting down her sword in a similar fashion. Silver tries to distract herself from the fact that she was staring. “You’re going to teach me to fight, then, against Spanish soldiers?” she says, and she drops her own jacket onto the ground as Flint picks up her sword again, glancing over at her. “Isn’t it a little too late for that?” 

 

“Pay attention,” Flint orders, and Silver picks up the sword, weighs it in her hands cautiously. “See your sword as an extension from your wrist onwards - “

  
  


  * ••



  
  


She hits the ground hard, giving a muffled groan as her shoulder is forced forward under her weight. The sun has escaped from behind the clouds, and by now, the rays are beating down on them. Silver can feel dust in her mouth, as she spits out dirt, and struggles to get on her feet.

 

Flint waits until she’s upright before saying, “Again,” and she advances. Silver manages to deflect two, three blows before the flat of Flint’s sword hits her arm, and she bites her tongue as she stumbles to the side once again. 

 

She should have expected, in hindsight, for Flint to be so intense in this, even when she’s supposed to be teaching Silver. It’s not even that she’s a terrible teacher, it’s just that Flint’s skill so surpasses Silver that she can’t help but feel as though this is a lost cause the more they go on. 

 

It’s one thing to see Flint fight someone, and another thing to be on the other end of her blade. Even though Flint keeps her hits clean, and she doesn’t draw any blood, Silver knows that she’s going to be black and blue all over by tonight. Flint doesn’t seem to be holding back, but Silver knows that she is, and her pride stings right alongside her bruises now. 

 

“Keep your wrist straight,” Flint orders, a lock of auburn hair sticking against her forehead the only sign of exertion - unlike Silver’s heaving chest. “There - look at the position of my feet as I move, and don’t hesitate to double back to accommodate for lesser force- “

 

Silver tries to follow her advice, but on her next attempt to at least land a blow on the captain, Flint easily flips her blade to the side, swiping at her and forcing Silver to jump back, her sword falling to the ground. “Jesus Christ,” she grits out. 

 

“If the opportunity arises, you should use a gun,” Flint says, watching as Silver recovers. 

 

Picking up her sword once again, Silver scoffs. “You don’t have to tell me that, captain. Trust me, I’m well aware of my limitations in this particular area.” 

 

“A lot of men will try to engage in a sword fight for no other reason than to prove something to themselves,” Flint says. “Something about the dignity of seeing the light leave one’s eyes when you kill them with a blade, versus shooting them from afar.” 

 

“Luckily, I have no problem shooting from afar,” Silver says, readying her stance. “I’m no man.”

 

“No,” Flint says, “I don’t suppose you are.” 

 

During the next bout, Silver’s blade hits the ground again, and she curses at the twinge in her back as she picks it up. Flint must notice, for she calls a break soon after, sitting down on one of the sandbanks. 

 

While they’ve been practicing, the sun has risen fully in the sky. Silver should be picking up her jacket and leaving, but instead, she watches as Flint squints in the sunlight, looking out at the sliver of the ocean they can see from just beyond the hills. 

 

“Yesterday,” Silver says, without realizing that she had spoken out loud until Flint’s eyes snap to hers, “When you and Mr. McGraw disappeared, I spoke to Billy.”

 

“Oh?” Flint asks. 

 

“He expressed to me his displeasure with Hornigold going along with your plan,” Silver says. “He seems to be someone who is especially upset at the thought of you regaining your captaincy."

 

“Gates was like a father to him,” Flint says, and Silver can see something jump in her jaw despite the fact Flint’s face remains neutral. “He’s not going to forgive that.”

 

“Are you not worried about his potential to sabotage you? Not to even bring up the fact that you seem to have promised your support for control of the fort to two different men - ” 

 

“Should I inquire as to why you are asking me this?” Flint asks. “You seem fixed on the possibility of betrayal. Should I be asking why you’re the one who seems too keen to talk about a possibility?” 

 

The moment feels heavy, and Silver drags her eyes away from Flint to look out at the swaying grasses that stretch out on the island, not unlike the color as Flint’s eyes. “I’m hardly the first in line to betray you on this island, captain,” she says finally. “Billy’s no threat to you, not in light of a warship bearing down on us all. But I suppose you knew that already, didn’t you?”

 

Flint gets up, and she brushes the sand off her trousers. Silver watches the sand fall back to the ground, lost among the rest of the grains, and although they soon return to training, she thinks that even with what they’ve been through, she still doesn’t understand Flint. 

  
  
  


  * ••



  
  


Both Hornigold and the Walrus’s men prepare under Flint’s orders. Silver helps them roll cannons on the beach, clean the rifles. She doesn’t see much of Flint after their lesson. Flint must send word to the fort as well, for Vane sends some of his men to assist them in distributing shot, rations and the like. 

 

They stay out of the town, though. The people of Nassau must know by now that the pirates are about to bring a battle to them, and the ones that are able to flee into the interior do so within that first day.  Silver sees them, families and children huddled on carts being pulled by old, weary mules, the dusty road leaving a cloud long after they’ve disappeared.

 

She doesn’t think about what happens to those who will be trapped in the town. Sieges don’t favor the innocent. 

 

The men from the Walrus come ashore, and although they obey Flint's orders - somehow convinced by Billy or Hornigold - there’s a definite coldness there. Flint seems to either not notice or not care, and even if they refused to follow Flint’s orders, most of them seem to be thankful that at least they have tasks to do, something to prepare for. 

 

Muldoon corners her that first night. “The men sent me to talk to you,” he says, and Silver pauses where she was scrubbing a plate as he leans on one of the tent poles. "You killed one of us, and for that, the men want you to answer for it.”

 

“By answer, do you mean, sew me in a canvas bag, or do we discuss the ramifications?” Silver says, trying to avoid being too short with him as she sets down the plate. Muldoon’s sweet, and while he might not have any personal grudge against her, she has to be careful.

 

“If Flint coerced you into protecting her, that the men can understand,” Muldoon says earnestly. “Some of the men could believe that. I could tell them that.” 

 

“Do you believe that?” 

 

“You’re a smart woman,” Muldoon says. “I know that you were only on board in the first place because of that whole business with the schedule. But you were part of the crew, then, and I think you know that they like you - you’re always hanging’ around, telling us these stories, and you’re not half bad with a gun and all. Maybe they'd be willing to forgive you."

 

“Why would you do that?” Silver asks, leaning back. “Why help me?” 

 

She doesn’t expect for the bald man to go slightly pink. “You remind me of someone,” Muldoon says, sitting down on the ground across from her. “Someone I knew once. He was smart like you, could be anyone he wanted to be. Suppose that I’m a bit soft because of that - and don’t go telling anyone, either, otherwise, I’ll take it back.” 

 

“What happened to him?” Silver asks, tempering her tone into something gentle. “Your friend?” 

 

“Left,” Muldoon says. “Ship heading to Port Royal. After that, I don’t know. Guess he got tired of the heat here.”

 

He gets quiet, but before he can reconsider what he’s offering, Silver leans forward, touches his arm. “Let me make it up to you,” Silver says, and she lets an indulgent smile come across her face.  “Thank you for this."

 

“Uh,” Muldoon says, “Not that I wouldn’t - appreciate it, but - uh -“

 

She bites back a laugh. “Don’t worry,” Silver says, and she pats his knee. “I know  _ that  _ wouldn’t be to your taste. Let me steal some of Randall’s liquor - you can tell me about your friend, and I’ll tell you about the time I managed to steal a nun’s habit in my daring youth.”

  
  


  * ••



  
  


“Again,” Flint orders, tapping her blade against her own thigh. “This time, try with your left.” 

 

Silver switches hands. Flint had insisted that she try with both - in case she was injured in one arm, it wouldn’t do to have her incapacitated. Flint dodges a slow blow coming from the side, and in a series of quick motions, she has the point brushing against Silver’s neck. 

 

“Fuck,” Silver grunts. “I doubt I’m getting any better at this, captain.” 

 

“You’re not getting worse,” Flint tells her calmly, flicking her sword away. “You just need to remember not to only watch the end of the sword.” 

 

“Easier said than done,” Silver says. She appears to be tenser today, something that Flint puts to the impending battle. The woman glances over to the side, where their discarded jackets cushion a bottle. “Can I have a minute?” 

 

“Are you going to ask a Spanish regular if you can rest between bouts?” Flint says, her face straight. 

 

Silver’s head goes back, and she lets out a surprised huff of laughter. “I’ll let you have some of this rum if that sweetens the deal.”

 

Flint nods, and Silver traipses over to the pile. “You are getting better,” she says, watching Silver uncorks the bottle. “You’ll have the power of underestimation on your side. Your technique might be terrible, but when it’s a fight for your life, I have no doubt that you will manage.”

 

“Careful, captain, if you keep that up, someone might think you like me,” Silver says, an easy grin on her face as she lifts the bottle. Flint remembers Martin’s words, and she nearly chokes. Luckily, Silver can’t see with the glass in the way, and Flint manages to school her face into something vaguely annoyed, even if it doesn’t seem to faze Silver anymore. 

 

“We’ll need every able-bodied person tomorrow,” Flint says, even though if the plan goes accordingly, Silver and the others at the fort won’t see a single moment of combat. “If it means I put some time aside to make sure you don’t die in the first fight you get into in the future, then it’ll be worth it.” 

 

Silver, for her part, lets out an exhale. “I find myself unsure that any of this will be worth it,” she says. “Bruises aside, captain, I doubt these lessons are doing anything significant anymore."

 

“You’re getting better.” Flint watches as Silver sets down the bottle. “This will help.” 

 

“How about I teach you how to shoot, instead?” Silver suggests.  

 

“I  _ know _ how to shoot.” 

 

“Yeah, but not like I can,” Silver says, with the sort of closed-mouth smile that makes something in Flint’s chest twist. “Here, set that bottle down."

 

“I’m not going to be practicing trick shots,” Flint says with a scoff. 

 

“Yeah, well, I didn’t think I was going to be hit with a sword ten thousand times today, so it’s a day of surprises,” Silver says brazenly, and really, Flint is going to have to work on her glower, especially when Silver comes close, her fingers closing around the neck of the bottle in Flint’s hand. 

 

“If you let me show you, I’ll save the better rations for you,” Silver offers. “The most fragrant hard tack."

 

“That’s strictly against ship code, and I’ll remind you that you are still held to those rules even if we are on land - “ Flint’s voice temporarily leaves her when Silver’s other hand loops around her wrist, gently forcing her to let go of the bottle. 

 

“Well?” Silver asks cheekily, and Flint lets out a sigh. 

 

“Only if you stop wasting my time talking about it,” she snaps, and Silver smirks at her before striding away. 

 

She sets the bottle down on top of the sand, and Flint is reminded of when she watched Silver shoot through a handle of a tankard, especially when Silver walks back towards her with a swagger in her hips that nearly looks exaggerated.

 

“Now, it’s a little low, but I think you’ll manage the extra challenge,” Silver tells her, and Flint eyes the bottle. It’s a tough shot, especially since she only has her pistol with her, but now that Silver is looking at her with purposefully wide eyes, she’s going to have to make it, damn it. 

 

She goes over to get the pistol, comes back to stand next to Silver. Silver waits as Flint makes sure it’s loaded on reflex, then cocks it. 

 

What she doesn’t expect is for Silver to step that she’s behind her. On instinct, Flint tries to turn around to keep her in her sight, but Silver exhales, and her hot breath on the back of Flint’s neck keeps her from moving like she’s tethered in place. 

 

“It’s all in the timing,” Silver says conversationally like she’s not two inches from being pressed up against Flint’s back. “You don’t want to go at it too soon, you want to take your time and be ready for it.” 

 

Flint knows that Silver is tactile with others. She’s seen it when Silver puts an impressed hand on the biceps of some of the crew, like when she clasps hands with that short bald one, or even touching one's arm to get their attention. 

 

Silver rarely touches her though, and it’s that realization that comes up now that Flint can practically feel the warmth emanating from her body all against Flint’s. She feels like she’s balancing on a rock in the middle of a fire, one wrong step and she’ll be consumed with flames around her, something inside her already howling at the thought. 

 

Silver has different ideas though, and Flint might as well jump in the fire for her hands land on Flint - one on her hip, the other on her forearm above where Flint’s holding the pistol. “It’s all in the way you hold yourself,” Silver says, her voice just by her ear, “You have to keep some parts tense, others flexible.”

 

Flint can feel her fingers flex on her side, and when she lifts her arm with the pistol - Silver not letting her go - her shirt rides up a little, and then Silver’s fingers are on bare skin. She breathes in ever so slightly, as though Silver wouldn’t be able to notice. “I know how to shoot,” Flint repeats, and it takes her a moment to get past the fingertips pressing into her hipbone and focus on the bottle downwind of them. 

 

She’s a fool. She doesn’t like Silver. She doesn’t trust Silver. She doesn’t like - 

 

Silver squeezes on her hip. “So tense, captain.” She lifts Flint’s arm just a little bit, hand sliding past to Flint’s elbow, to the softer flesh under her arm. “Aim just above - and the key is being absolutely still - “

 

Flint shifts ever so slightly, looking at the bottle perched on the sand, and then Silver is pressed even closer to her. “Just a little more, there, darling - “

 

Flint fires the gun. The sound is somehow both louder and nonexistent, as Silver sucks in the slightest breath behind her, Flint’s arm jerking slightly from the recoil. 

 

The bullet doesn’t hit the bottle, nowhere near its target most likely, but Flint can't be disappointed, for Silver’s hand slips towards her front, low on her stomach below her navel. Then her mouth is right behind her ear. “You missed it,” Silver says, and her lips brush against Flint’s earlobe, finding the exact spot that makes Flint’s breathing hitch. She doesn’t let go of Flint. “But do you get it?” 

 

This is a terrible idea, Flint thinks to herself, as Silver is still behind her, smoke still going from the gun, and all she can smell is powder and salt - and Flint drops the pistol into the sand in front of them. 

 

Silver starts to say something, and Flint can feel the vibration of her throat, but then she puts her hand over Silver’s, pushes it lower. Silver’s hand goes slack for a second, but then her fingers are sliding into Flint’s trousers, away from Flint’s hand. Her fingers are cooler, as she pauses a moment, and then Flint feels Silver’s teeth just barely graze her earlobe, the sensation slight and yet magnified by the sensation of Silver’s hand against her. 

 

Flint sucks in a breath as Silver’s hand moves even lower, and somewhere between the heartbeat thudding in her ears and Silver’s breath against her neck, she lets out the slightest groan. Silver flattens her hand against her, her fingers teasing with the hint of movement against her, and her hips rock up, seeking friction that the gesture promises. 

 

“Yeah,” Silver mumbles against her neck, and she cups her hand against Flint, the palm of her hand not-quite-enough pressure against her clit. Flint bites her tongue rather than moan out loud, her hips attempting to move against Silver’s hand against her volition. Silver’s hand presses back, rubbing, and it’s not enough and yet too much, as Flint lets her head drop back a little until Silver’s mouth is on her neck, her breath wet against her skin, and Flint’s hand clench uselessly at her sides. 

 

Silver’s hand squeezes her hip again, but before Flint could do something as reckless as trying to turn and kiss her, she takes a step back. Her hand comes out of Flint’s trousers, and although she feels the loss like a blow to her stomach, her hand stay clenched at her sides, frozen. 

 

Flint’s head feels foggy, until Silver uses her distraction to turn her around, and now that she’s close - and she can still feel Silver’s fingers against her, that ghost-like pressure - she can see how her pupils are dilated against the lighter color of her irises, the red of her mouth that makes Flint want to bite down on her bottom lip and never let go. 

 

“I want - “ Silver starts, and her tongue darts out to wet her lips as if she’s unsure, Flint tracking the motion. She sucks in a breath between her teeth as Silver puts her hands on her hips again, her thumbs squeezing ever so slightly. “Can I?” Silver asks, and for all the color that’s high on her cheeks, she seems content on waiting for Flint to respond. 

 

“Do it,” Flint grits out, feeling Silver’s hands tighten against her, and it’s ineloquent, but then Silver’s easily dropping to her knees right there in the sand. 

 

Flint nearly swallows her tongue as Silver presses her face against Flint’s hip, her fingers working their way into the waistband of Flint’s trousers as she moans. The vibration travels up against her like the sound’s made its way to her bones, twisting and turning as Silver starts tugging her trousers down, mouthing the skin that is revealed to her. Flint’s legs aren’t going to be able to support her weight for much longer, her eyelids slipping shut as Silver licks down the line of one hip down to the top of her thigh, and she reaches out to clutch at Silver’s head - 

 

Only instead of her hands getting caught in dark tangles, they slide through far softer hair. Before her vision even focuses enough to see, Flint recognizes the sensation, the long, straight strands slipping through her fingers smooth as silk.

 

Blue eyes look up at her, only now they’re a clearer color, framed by blonde eyelashes that blink up at her as delicate as thread. Suddenly, Flint’s on the ground too, and the sand is rising, its hot weight burying her as she’s unable to even struggle, the hands on her hip now cradling her face. 

 

“Darling,” the voice murmurs, only it’s a thousand voices masquerading as one because she’s forgotten what she sounds like at this point, and how could she - “You didn’t come back for me - "

 

Flint opens her mouth, only more sand pours out, and she breathes in dust and blood, feels the grit against her molars as she tries to say anything, try all over again to apologize - 

 

Flint’s eyes snap open, and she’s upright before she even knows it. Nausea hits her second, and she squeezes her eyes shut, hoping for a moment to be brought back to that beach even if she has to relive the horror.

 

Martin is still asleep next to her when Flint manages to look over, an arm thrown over his face. When Flint stops shaking enough so that she dares lie down, he puts his arm around his shoulders, sleepily pulling her in so that his chin hooks over her head.

 

She doesn’t sleep much after that. 

  
  


  * ••



  
  


The next day, Flint hits Silver with the flat of the blade, over and over again, and each time Silver picks herself up off the ground, spitting out dirt when Flint drives her towards one of the dunes and she falls face-first. 

 

With each clang of their swords, Flint tries to forget the impending battle, the damning thoughts through her head, the bruises to her pride from each time she’s had to speak to  _ fucking _ Hornigold. She knows she’s being brutal, but the more she thinks about it, the more she wants to go and start a fight, so instead, she focuses on the repetition of her footwork, finding flaws in Silver’s and pressing. 

 

After an hour, Silver’s shirt is nearly translucent from sweat, and some time ago she had tied her back to reveal surprisingly delicate ears. For all the times that Flint has been irritated for her cockiness or disrespect, there's something to be said for the number of times she rises unsteadily to her feet over and over again, the certain steely determination in her eyes. 

 

She herself is not nearly as winded - her muscles are used to this, after all - but by now she’s breathing just as heavily as Silver. It doesn’t help that each time Flint sees Silver stumble, she thinks about Silver dropping to her knees in front of her, and even the thought of the dream is enough to cause something to churn inside her, making her feel far more flushed than the sun overhead could ever excuse.  

 

“Shit!” Silver hisses, when Flint’s sword taps her shoulder, after a clumsy slip of her wrist that had rendered her left side wide open. 

 

“Again,” Flint tells her curtly. “Focus.” 

 

“I don’t know  _ how  _ badly your meeting with Hornigold has been, but you don’t have to take it out - “ Silver’s interrupted when Flint advances again, their swords hitting together. She lasts slightly longer until Flint’s blade is one again at her throat. 

 

“That’s what training means,” Flint says, taking the sword away. "It’s learning the skill as well as discipline to do it.” For a moment, she feels like she’s all of eighteen years old again, Navy-issue boots squeaking on polished decks, feeling the crisp air on her face as the commanding officer barks orders across the deck. 

 

Silver scoffs, and the sound breaks her out of the memory. “Discipline,” she says. “Another word for not knowing what else to do.” 

 

That makes Flint’s temper heat up even more. “Discipline,” she hisses, “Is exactly what you lack severely.” 

 

“I’ve found that my ability to adapt is far more useful than any sort of rigid constraint,” Silver says, matching her gaze with a challenging one of her own. “You know what I think?” 

 

She nearly wishes she could use the sword in her hand at this moment. “Pray tell what you _ think  _ you know.” 

 

“I think you’re underestimating how much those men mistrust you,” Silver tells her. “Anyone of them could be out there right at this moment, saying ‘Captain Flint will betray anyone to get what she wants’, and yet you’re here, with me. I think you stir up this resentment in order to create the sort of uneven terrain that gets you exactly what you want - “

 

“Now hang on - “

 

“ - and I have been trying to smooth things over with the men, even attempt at getting them to go with this plan - “

 

“You speak like you haven’t benefited from your manipulation,” Flint snaps. 

 

“In case you’ve forgotten - I have no interest in this life,” Silver throws back. “The moment there’s a sloop leaving off this godforsaken island, I’ll be on it - “

“Those men listen to you,” Flint says, ruthlessly cutting her off. “Somehow, despite you killing one of them, they give a shit about what you have to say. What you think, what you want them to think - where else in the world is that true?”

 

Silver is silent, but Flint can see her chest heaving - in anger, shock, as she says, “Where else would you wake up in the morning and matter? You walk out on this, and where the fuck are you going?”

 

Something in Silver’s jaw pulses. “Fuck you,” she says, and Flint would be impressed at her courage to say it to her face, as Silver throws her sword to the ground, and she stalks away. 

  
  


  * ••



  
  


Early in the morning on the third day, Flint slips out of bed and she goes up to the roof of the cottage. The gray shingles creak under her weight. Below her, a few men still on watch linger between here and where the tents are set up on the other side of the hill leading up to the house. She’s invisible up here, her location unexpected, as the only way onto the roof is through a ladder propped on the side. 

 

When she and Martin had first come to the island, they had stayed in the town’s inn for those first few months, soaking in their rage. Then Flint had met Gates, and her name had started to grow. It soon became too dangerous for Martin to stay in town while she was out on a pirate’s ship, those who were upset with Flint’s arrival and subsequent actions soon finding out their relationship. 

 

There had been a fight just once, early on in her captaincy. It had been by coincidence that the Walrus had been in the harbor in the first place, and more so that Flint had found the time to go visit Martin. 

 

Flint had taken one look at Martin’s swollen eye, the reddish-purple bruise not even fully formed on his face, and then she had gone down into the tavern to find the men who had decided to target him. They were still saying ugly things about the bitch who had taken over on the Walrus and her spineless husband when she had drawn her sword. 

 

Word traveled quickly, and the rest of the pirates had learned that if Flint was not to be trifled with, Mr. McGraw was certainly off limits to those with any common sense (or at least those who valued their lives). The pirates had lived to tell the tale, after all, and they knew better than anyone the power of tales. 

 

Afterwards, they had sought a home on the island’s interior. He had found the cottage, half-burned out from the Rosario raids and long abandoned, and Flint had confirmed with Gates that if the house was abandoned, it was theirs. 

 

Flint had watched as Martin walked through the cottage, inspecting the rafters - charred but sturdy - his footsteps echoing in the empty space. She still felt as saturated by tragedy, the grief having worked its way into her bones beyond the point of repair by now, but perhaps here, at least he could wring out his grief, try to repair what was broken. 

 

Flint had put some work into the house when she was able to, but it had always been Martin’s project - his home. She supposes it wasn’t like he had much to do, not when she was away at sea, as more and more civilized folk drifted away from Nassau in favor of places like Charleston or Boston. Over the years, the walls had been painted, the roof repaired, the garden tamed into something more manageable until Flint had come back after a grueling voyage and there had been a complete house, something that had been born and raised entirely in her absence. 

 

Now, as she sits on the roof, she watches as the sun begins to rise over the horizon. She’s much too wired to go back to sleep, even before the impending battle, and as the sun rises over the line of the ocean, she feels something shifting under her skin as she waits. 

 

There’s a creak from behind her, and she’s about to dismiss it, but then she hears someone coming up the ladder. Martin disliked heights, and there was only one person who would be so bold as to disturb her like this, anyways, so she knows who it is without turning her head. 

 

“It’s early,” Flint says, at last, keeping her eyes trained on the far line where the sky meets the sea. 

 

“Yes, well, facing a Spanish warship potentially rather robbed me of good sleep,” Silver says dryly, and she moves to sit next to Flint - carefully far away, but still in her vision. “Are you going to tell me that my fears are unwarranted?” 

 

Flint snorts. “Hardly.”

 

“I think I could manage one fight,” Silver muses, crossing her legs. “It’s when I’m faced with a group of Spanish regulars that I can’t see anything ending well for me."

 

“You’ll be in the fort anyways,” Flint says, shifting her weight. “A sword will be your last resort. You’ll be discouraging anyone from approaching the fort’s main entrance with your rifle if it even comes to that.”

 

“And you’ll be on the Walrus?” 

 

Her fingers run over the rough texture of the shingles, remembering how when she had put them up in the first place, the heat of the sun beating down on her back - unlike the slight chill to the air this morning. “I will.”

 

“I don’t doubt the importance of your place there,” Silver says. "I do, however, wonder how you’ll manage to get the men to follow your orders once again once you’re on that ship. It’s been a few days, and I don’t suppose their resentment has vanished into thin air."

 

“I’ll find a way,” Flint says. “How do you think you’ll manage, being in a fort with men who would have no allegiance to you?” 

 

“You forget, captain, I’m a hard woman to dislike,” Silver says. Flint can’t hide the quirk of her mouth at that. “There are limited roles to a woman in this world. I’ve found that for all the toil that the role comes with, forgiveness is attached to the sight of a pretty face for men.” 

 

“I think you confuse friendship with necessity,” Flint says. “And necessity is finite."

 

“Is it?” Silver asks, and Flint turns her head towards her. “I know what you intend after the warship. You want to start a war, is it?"

 

Flint considers leaving, rather than discuss this with her - she needs to focus on the crucial first battle, after all, and there are dozens of things she could be doing instead of looking into Silver’s blue eyes. But she says, “Yes.” 

 

“Christ,” Silver says. “And those men out there - they understand that?”

 

“I suppose it’s occurred to some of them,” Flint says, “But not enough for any of them to bring it up. That, or they’re not brave enough to point it out to me.”

 

“You think they would just follow you into what comes next?"

 

“I think what comes next is inevitable, no matter what they might believe,” Flint says. “I think that given the chance to keep their freedom, those men will do what they must.”

 

“Is that why you’re doing this? For freedom?” Silver meets her eyes. “Is it truly just freedom you seek?”

 

Flint doesn’t like the way that the words aim to hit far closer than she would have expected. “What are you suggesting?” she asks, and the words are far more pointed than she would have liked them to come out. 

 

Silver doesn’t blink, and she looks far more serious than Flint has even seen her. “I think you’re not the sort of woman to keep your motives obvious. That goes without saying, but what you’re suggesting - a war against Spain, England, civilization - that doesn’t come from something as lofty as wanting freedom from those who would seek such control.”

 

“You think you know me that well?”

 

“I do,” Silver says. “It takes one to know one, doesn’t it?” 

 

There’s silence, as Flint works this through in her mind. Eventually, Silver says, “The men will be gathering soon. I should leave.”

 

“Silver,” Flint says when Silver has one boot on the ladder. Silver looks at her, and the moment feels taut between them, enough so that she doesn’t dare disrupt whatever it is stretched out lest it snaps. 

 

Flint settles on, “Shoot well.”

 

Silver’s grin is like the moon peeking out from on top of the trees. “Always, captain.” 

  
  


  * ••



  
  


While the men are preparing to split up - most of them on board the Ranger or the Walrus, but some remaining on the beach or to the fort - Martin finds Flint in the middle of her preparations. 

 

“It would seem that my place has not been decided in this,” Martin says from beside her. Flint straightens up, as she checks to make sure that she has enough ammunition in her belt. He already has a pistol tucked away in his belt - for all that Martin is a  _ terrible _ shot, she wasn’t about to leave him unarmed, but the sight still makes her wish that he was far away from this island. 

 

“Is that so?” Truth be told, she thought that Martin would stay in the cottage, but she sees the look in his eyes and internally, she sighs. “What were you thinking?” 

 

“I should be in the fort,” Martin says, and Flint gives him a sharp look. “Don’t look at me like that. Vane is already - uneasy with this whole plan, from what you’ve suggested. I’d rather not stay here and listen to your cannons go off in the distance the entire time, mind you, and I thought you might have problems with my being on the beach itself.” 

 

“You would offer yourself up as collateral, you mean,” Flint says flatly. 

 

“Not collateral, but as a promise,” Martin says. He looks around them, takes a step closer. “When this is over - when you have successfully defended Nassau from the warship, stoked Spain’s ire, you’ll need to be able to return to the island. What better way than to go into this next stage of your plan and to ensure what comes next than by having the ear of the man in the fort itself?”

 

“You’re suggesting I would offer you as that?"

 

“I think Eleanor knows enough about me to at least give me the chance,” Martin says. “You know Eleanor. You know her influence over Vane. You know it’s what is necessary."

 

The fort would also be a safer place for him, but still, the idea of him in that place - especially with Vane running it - casts an uneasy sensation in her gut. “I don’t like it,” Flint says finally. “But I won’t be able to convince you otherwise, would I?"

 

“Of course not,” Martin says, “Although perhaps I can finally have a moment to talk to your friend alone, now.” 

 

“Stay away from Silver,” Flint says half-warningly. “Martin, I swear - “ 

 

He just laughs, stepping away, and seeing the corners of his eyes crinkle makes something in her stomach settle far more than checking the guns could ever. “I’ll see you, then,” he says, and Flint lets herself step forward into his arms, clutch at his back. “Fair winds to you, as it goes.” 

 

“Stay safe,” she says, and Martin kisses the top of her head.

  
  


  * ••



  
  


Billy leads the group of men up to the fort, Silver hanging into the back. Muldoon is among them, she’s pleasantly surprised to see, and she lengthens her pace until she’s caught up with him while they’re going around the outskirts of town. 

 

“They’re all scared because one of them found a dead seabird just outside of camp this morning,” he tells her under his breath. “Said it’s bad luck.”

 

“What do you think?”

 

“I think they’re nervous and don’t want to admit it,” Muldoon admits, and Silver huffs out a small laugh. 

 

“They’re not alone.” 

 

Ahead of them, she recognizes a dark head of hair - and she certainly didn’t expect Martin McGraw to be part of this group. Silver wonders if she should catch up with him, satisfy her own curiosity, but before she can debate too much on it, Martin turns his head, looking right at her like he knew she was looking at him in the first place. 

 

He slows down slightly, and Silver takes the cue to touch Muldoon’s arm once before going up to walk beside the man.

 

“Miss Silver,” Mr. McGraw says as Silver falls in stride with him. “Flint tells me that you’re to be on the towers.” 

 

“Yes, well, I’m awfully good at shooting,” Silver says. “Am I to presume by your presence that you too have a similarly hidden skill?” 

 

The man lets out an amused sound at that. “I’ll be letting you perform the sharpshooting, I think.”

 

“Mr. McGraw, you were very kind to open your house of the men,” Silver says. “For the little I know about you, that must have been difficult to allow total strangers into your home like that, especially since it appears that only you and the captain live there.” 

 

The man slows down ever so slightly, and what Silver doesn’t expect is for him to say. “Miss Silver, if you’re asking me on the circumstances that have brought me to this island, I do believe you’ll have to ask your captain for more information.”

 

“Why, do you not remember?” Mr. McGraw sends her a close-lipped smile in response. 

 

“What if I’m asking you?” Silver asks then, attempting to smile brightly at him - her smile has convinced men of far more in the past - but Mr. McGraw seems nonplussed. 

 

But before she can try to pry further, they round the corner on their way up to the fort. She watches as the tall gates of the fort swing open, revealing the men on the other side. At the front, Billy steps forward, a frown already on his face.

Eleanor is the one on the other side of the doors, Mr. Scott behind her. “Flint and Hornigold sent you?” 

 

Billy says, “We’re to reinforce your numbers, maintain the fort.” 

 

Mr. McGraw steps forward, and Eleanor’s eyes slide to him. “Ms. Guthrie,” he says, “It is good to see you."

 

“I must ask, why are you here, Mr. McGraw?” Eleanor asks, not one for pleasantries at this time - or ever, Silver supposes. “Why are you not at the Underhill estate?”

 

“Ma’am, the captains felt that I was suitable to remain here, in an effort to reaffirm our partnership in this time,” Mr. McGraw says smoothly. “Where can I best help?"

 

“He can help me manage the messages coming in from the beach and the town,” Max says, stepping out from the tunnel leading to below the fort. She’s in a dress of a rather muted shade of green. “Mr. McGraw, you are lettered, correct?” 

 

“Yes, ma’am,’ the man says, and he steps forward to meet her. 

 

“You can help us,” Max says, and she exchanges a look with Eleanor. After a moment, Eleanor nods.

 

“Perhaps we should establish some things,” Mr. Scott says when it appears that Eleanor and Billy are just staring at each other. “Eleanor?” 

 

“Your men here, if they try anything, the consequences will be swift and severe,” Eleanor warns Billy, who stands up straight under her gaze. “Do I make myself clear?” 

 

“Understood,” Billy says. “Muldoon, Silver, Joshua, Dobbs - you to the top of the wall. The rest of you, with me.” 

 

  * ••



 

Flint goes down to the beach. Given the limited timeframe, they’re about as set up as she expected, and now she can practically taste the anxiety in the air as the men pace up and down, loading rifles and checking the cannons.

 

“Captain,” one of the men says, “The launch is ready.” 

 

When Flint steps on board her ship once again, the men go quiet at the sight of her. A bird flies overhead and the shadow is the only movement, the men all turning to see her. For a moment, it’s nearly silent, the deck creaking below all of them. 

 

Flint squares her shoulders and straightens her expression. Dufresne, whom the men had elected quartermaster under Billy’s suggestion, steps forward. “Captain,” he says, “We’re ready to set sail.” 

 

“Stay on anchor for now,” Flint orders. “Be prepared to cast off at the first sight of her. I want more men on the lookout to the southwest for now.” 

 

The man seems to hover for a moment, but then Dufresne repeats her orders to the men below, and however sour the expression on his face, the men obey. They won’t like this - but even they recognize that in this next part, it is crucial for her to be here.

 

Flint turns her own sights out to the sea beyond the bay. The wind is brisk about them, ideal for quick maneuvers, but it also means that they will have less of a buffer between sighting the warship and her arrival in the harbor. 

 

She starts to spin one of her rings, the brass one around her thumb, and she waits.

 

  * ••



  
  


At the top of the wall, Silver’s beginning to understand why the men were so anxious down on the beach. The only thing worse than staring down the guns of a warship was this  _ waiting _ , especially given the fact that they might witness the entire battle from this distance.

 

Below them, Nassau stretches out in rolling greens and browns, the town itself reduced to clusters of buildings that gather around the steeple of the church and points of the tavern and warehouse. From her side, Muldoon has started to kick pebbles on the ground aimlessly, as Silver turns her attention out to the bay.

 

From here, the ships have a clearer view of the neck, out where they will be expecting enemy ships, and Silver keeps her eyes on the Walrus and the Ranger, bobbing in the distance. She can nearly imagine Flint striding up and down the wooden deck, eyes sharp on the horizon same as the rest of them, her arms folded behind her back.

 

“If I might have a word,” Max’s voice comes from behind them, and Muldoon quickly clears out as Max takes his place.

 

Silver keeps her eyes on the ships. “Eleanor Guthrie let you up here?”

 

“I am not a prisoner here,” Max says calmly. “We have not gotten the chance to speak.”

 

“We don’t need to. What’s been done has been done, and there are no words left between us, I can assure you.” 

 

“You are angry with me,” Max says, “Silver - look at me.” 

 

Silver does, as Max continues, "I understand. I would apologize, but I do not wish to lie to you.” 

 

“What, you’ve had your fill of that, then?” If Max is just here to try to smooth things over with her for her own peace of mind, well, Silver isn’t exactly in the mood to do so. 

 

“I did what I must,” Max says, and at least Silver knows now she’s being honest. “But what you have gotten into - what we have gotten into - I thought you should know.”

 

She’s not surprised at what Max is alluding. “You’ve seen what Flint thinks this will bring,” Silver says eventually. “You know what this battle will bring.” 

 

“I think many do, but the question still remains on who will see this fight through,” Max answers. “When the cannon fire has ceased out there, will we find you here, or will you be finding the first ship off this island?”

 

“I think you know the answer to that,” Silver says. “There’s no gold here. Why would I stay?” 

 

“You’ve started to create a name for yourself here,” Max says instead, and Silver’s eyebrows shoot up before she can help it. “The men talk about you here, standing behind Flint, someone to be feared due to that association. They say you shot a man in cold blood out there."

 

“Are you saying I’m the only murderer on this island?” 

 

“I am saying that you underestimate how far you have gone from civilization,” Max says. “If you’re not looking to join another pirate crew, you do know that your only other option is to make it back to somewhere less -  _ wild _ , than Nassau. I am telling you this because despite what has transpired between us, I know that you want to be rid of this place. That is why I warn you now, that your name is growing at a rate that you cannot hope to carry with you to a civilized place.”

 

Silver turns to look back at the harbor. “A name,” she says, nearly reflectively. “What’s your point, Max?”

 

“The longer your association with Flint continues, the more it will grow,” Max says, her eyes nearly luminous in the light. “I’ve seen it before. What this place takes from women like us - it also gives, but it is not a prize that most can sustain. You, I believe, might be able to carry the weight of such a name, just like Eleanor, or like Captain Flint.” 

 

“You think that I should leave before I become someone too tempting to leave behind?”

 

“I think you should run before you find you cannot,” Max answers steadily, “Before you find that your feet are weighted down by the sand that you are attempting to escape.” 

  
  


  * ••



  
  


After several hours, the sun has set, and the ship is cast in darkness. Flint keeps her eyes trained out on the open water, not daring to sleep. 

 

The ship sways even more as time passes, and she continues spinning the ring on her finger, waiting. She continues her own watch, even though she can practically feel the men grow restless as the moon shines overhead.

 

She can’t say how long it’s been when Dufresne approaches her. “Captain, the men need to rest,” he says. “If the warship is not on her way - “ 

 

“She should be here,” Flint says, her voice distant to even her own ears. “She should be here.” 

 

“Perhaps you miscalculated the time it would take for the ship to arrive,” the quartermaster suggests. 

 

From behind them, Mr. DeGroot speaks up. “The captain was correct in her estimation,” he says, looking between her and the quartermaster. "The warship should be here by now if they gave chase."

 

“Then maybe she’s not coming here at all,” Dufresne says then, after an extended pause. “The warship could have continued on her path."

 

Flint keeps her eyes in the direction, even as it’s too dark to see too much beyond the entrance point of the harbor. 

 

“Prepare a launch to the Ranger,” she orders after a long moment. 

 

“Captain?” 

 

“Mr. Dufresne. Order the launch.” 

 

_ Where is it? _

 

Vane is standing at the side when the launch reaches his ship. He has a grim expression on his face, as Flint swings her legs over the side, his arms crossed. Behind him is his quartermaster, conferring with the ship’s master over something,  and Bonny is lurking behind Vane, eyes fixed on Flint like she’s expecting Flint to draw a gun on him. 

 

“She should be here,” Flint says. Around them, she can see how his men are whispering among each other - probably wondering why Vane doesn’t shoot her here and be done with it. 

 

“She should have been here yesterday,” Vane says. “Where the fuck are they?”

 

Flint looks at the horizon, where the sun is just beginning to rise up in the distance. She can’t see a scenario where the Spanish would have accepted the loss of the gold - 

 

Then it hits her, and it’s like the air sucks out of her lungs. “We need to get back to the Walrus,” Flint barks out at her men, turning around. “Get the fucking launch."

 

“The fuck’s wrong with you?” Vane demands. 

 

She turns back to him, fear starting to build in her stomach, as she forces out, “In the time that it took for the Walrus to return, the warship could have made it to Havana, caught the wind and come back here, explaining the delay.” 

 

Vane stares at her, and she can see when it hits him.

 

Rackham, who’s drifted over in the meantime, says, “Are you saying - “

 

The startled murmuring of the men interrupts his words, and both Vane and Flint turn at the same time just as the man up in the crow’s nest shouts, “Sails!"

  
  


  * ••



  
  


In the haze of early morning, the area around the fort looks far more ominous. Silver can only see the glint of the lanterns that meander up the path leading to the fort, winding its way up to disappear somewhere below them. 

 

She can’t see the Spanish taking the loss of their gold so lightly. But the night has nearly passed, and there is no warship beyond their shores. The longer they wait, the heavier Silver’s eyelids get, until they’re staring at the faint pink line of the horizon that signals that it’s nearly dawn, and she’s contemplating if it’s worth catching an hour or so of sleep before day arrives. 

 

From beside her, Muldoon peers out over the bay, nudging her. Silver forces her eyes open as he asks, “You’d think maybe the warship lost track of us?"

 

“They know Nassau’s the pirate base,” Silver points out. “They saw our colors. And I doubt they would give up just at the risk of two ships."

 

Before he can reply, there’s sound coming from down below in the courtyard. Loud voices are traveling up from the bowels of the fort, and both she and Muldoon exchange a glance before moving to peer down at the source of the noise. 

 

“ - do you think you are you going?” 

 

“I need to speak with her, I’m leaving - "

 

“ - you cannot, not at this time, they are waiting for - “

 

“ - you don’t know how crucial this is, it’s is far too important to wait - “

 

“What is going on?” Eleanor Guthrie’s voice rings out in the courtyard, just as the owners of the voices emerge. Mr. McGraw, sounding harried, is illuminated by the flickering light of the torches. He's followed closely behind by Max, who has a hand on his arm and continues to speak to him in low, harsh tones until Eleanor gets closer to them. 

 

“I’m going out to the Walrus to speak with Captain Flint,” Mr. McGraw declares, even as men step out from behind Eleanor as if to restrain him. “New information has come to light, information that changes everything - “

 

“He cannot go out there, not now,” Max says, stepping forward. “He will not tell me what he read that has made him so distraught - “

 

“ - let me go! I swear -“

 

“Mr. McGraw, calm down!” Eleanor snaps.

 

“- we cannot trust that it is not detrimental to what we have here,” Max argues. “Eleanor, I do not know - "

 

Mr. McGraw takes a step forward, and in the different angle, Silver realized that it’s not just anger that twists his features - he looks distraught, defiant, the expressions raw on his face. “I don’t care about the  _ fucking  _ fort,” he spits out. “I need to tell her, and I’m going now.” 

 

“It was agreed on that no one would leave this fort,” Eleanor tells him sharply. “I can’t allow you to distract the captain by showing up, especially while they’re waiting for a battle. I could send a messenger - “

 

“She wouldn’t believe anyone but me,” McGraw says, his face twisted in the shifting light. “Not this.” 

 

Silver straightens up in interest, trying to at least gather what exactly has him riled up like this, but before she can, there’s more noise. 

 

“Ships!” the cry comes from lookout position on the tower. “West, entering the bay!”

 

From the ground, Eleanor’s head snaps up. “How many?”

 

“Four, ma’am!”

 

“ _ Four, _ “ Muldoon repeats. “How did they get so close?” 

 

Four ships. They’re not ready for five ships - they were barely ready for a single warship. Silver turns to Muldoon, whose eyes are round with uncertainty. The men up at the top of the fort and down below in the courtyard start muttering among each other. Below, Eleanor takes a stunned step away from Max and Mr. McGraw. 

 

“It appears that they did not lose track of us,” Silver says, sounding shaken to even her own ears. “They were coming all along.” 

  
  


  * ••



  
  


“Give me that,” Vane demands, and he seizes a spyglass from one of his men, pointing it towards the horizon. “Four ships. They’re led by the warship.” 

Flint swears under her breath. “Spanish?”

 

“If they are, they’re fresh from Havana,” Vane says, passing her the glass. She peers through it, counts the masses. They’ve managed to get far more close, hidden under the cover of night, emerging like some hellish illusion along with the sun. “We have a half hour until they’re upon us, if that.” 

 

“Signal the Walrus to raise the anchor,” Flint orders one of the men, and after a quick glance at Vane, he complies. “We need to send word to Hornigold on the beach, the fort - “

  
  


  * ••



  
  


It’s not quite chaos when she gets back to the Walrus, but it’s a near thing. The warship and escorts are even closer now, and she barely has her boots back on the planks before she’s barking orders. 

 

“Captain, at this rate we are severely outnumbered,” DeGroot says, following her into her cabin along with Dufresne. “We have not nearly the amount of shot - “

 

“I’m well aware, Mr. DeGroot. We’ll need to be conservative with our supplies,” Flint says, and she tugs out a map of the harbor. “Mr. Dufresne, any word from the fort or Hornigold?”

 

“None, captain - "

 

“ _ Conservative _ ,” DeGroot repeats. “Captain, we’re looking at slaughter out there!”

 

Flint ignores him in favor of poring over the map. “We'll tack out of the harbor, pass around them. The wind should stay steady, and we’ll have a gap through which to pass - "

 

“Captain, we lose the advantage of the wind if we do that, and we’ll be taking their fire - “

 

“I want us underway and moving, otherwise we’ll be surrounded by the other ships and stuck here,” Flint replies shortly. “The Ranger will be heading to the northeast of the island, and they’ll prepare to take on as many men as they can there. Once we’re clear, I’ll take a launch to the south, and come back with as many men as we can take away.” 

 

There’s a stunned silence. “You’d retreat from this fight?” 

 

“Like you said, it’s a slaughter, a calculated attack on pirates,” Flint says, her eyes on the map. “Their presence here means that they are aware that the risk of British retaliation is small. Our best chance is to evacuate out of the northeast, take as many as we can. We’ll provide cover for as many sloops to escape in the meantime."

 

Dufresne scoffs. “This is madness.” 

 

Flint looks at him right in the eye. “Those soldiers on those ships will be making their way to land first,” she says calmly. “They’ll be pushing by the ships to do this. The men on this ship are far safer than those on land. We need to move,  _ now _ .”

 

There’s a long silence that stretches out after her words. “Captain,” Dufresne says, and he leaves to call the launch. 

  
  


  * ••



  
  


Silver grips onto her rifle tightly from where she’s been positioned over the entrance to the fort, and as the sun starts to creep more and more over the horizon, and the ships approach the neck of the harbor.  The men around them are still rushing, most of them peering over the edge of the fort walls out at the bay, murmuring among themselves. 

 

A messenger has just come from the Ranger, informing them of a plan to evacuate from the island. The news had rippled through the men, and Billy had stalked away in favor of watching the ships approach the island. 

 

Throughout it all, she hasn’t seen Eleanor, Max, or Mr. McGraw. The gate hasn’t been opened though, so she suspects that they’re arguing about it elsewhere - or perhaps Eleanor had made good on her threat to lock him away somewhere, given how he was still struggling as they escorted him back down into the fort. 

 

“The Ranger and the Walrus can’t hold them all off,” Muldoon says, loading a rifle as well. “Then they’ll be coming to shore as soon as they sink them.” 

 

“What do they hope to find?” one of the men asks, his pale face smudged. “The gold’s gone, and we ain’t got anything worth it here - "

 

“It’s the Rosario raids all over again,” Billy says as he approaches them, a grim look on his face. “They’re seeking retribution for the loss of the treasure. To them, Nassau’s hostile territory, and they wish to make a point.” 

 

One of the men calls, “They're about to be in range! Ready to fire - “ 

 

“Don’t fire,” Billy says, and Silver - along with several of the other men - turn to look at him incredulously. 

 

“Billy?”

 

“Hold your fire!” Billy orders again, and Silver looks at Muldoon. 

 

“Billy,” Silver says, trying to remain calm, “What are you doing?”

 

“I want a full report every ten minutes on the positions of the ships,” Billy says, looking through a spyglass out into the harbor. The men around him shift, and Silver’s fingers clench onto her rifle. “I don’t want to see a single cannon leave this fort in the meantime.” 

 

Muldoon tries then, “Billy, if we don’t fire, they’re doomed out there - “

 

“If we fire now, we risk taking damage from the warship to the fort,” Billy says without looking at them. “With that number of ships, we need to save our cannons for defending the beach.”

 

“They’re counting on us to protect them - “

 

“Flint and Vane chose to go out there,” Billy snaps, and he glances around at them. “They’re already dead out there. We’ll focus on defending the beach, and that’s final.” 

 

He leaves, climbing back down the ladder. Silver turns her head back out to the bay, feeling the wind ruffle her hair. 

 

“If we don’t fire, they’re all dead,” Muldoon says, quieter. “Why is he doing this?”

 

The other men start to chime in too. “It makes sense, yeah - “ 

 

“ - those are our brothers out there, we can’t let them - “

 

“ - he knows what he’s doing, besides, he’s not wrong - "

 

Silver’s standing up before she realizes it. “Where are you doing?” Muldoon asks, and most of the men fall quiet as well. 

 

“I’m going to talk to him,” Silver says, her mind working. “Wait here, and shout if anything happens, yeah?” 

 

  * ••



  
  


“Fire!” Flint orders, and the cannons go off, as soon as the nearest ship is in range. She’s lucky that the Walrus has recently been refitted - she’ll be faster than this one, at least, but that’s useless when there are several more enemy ships trailing the first. “Aim for her masts, we need to incapacitate them to get by - "

 

The ship groans as they take another hit somewhere near the stern, and Flint’s fingers dig into the railing. They fire back, and Flint watches as a hole appears near the other ship’s bow, not doing anywhere near enough damage to dissuade them. 

 

She glances up at the sails. “Pull in the t’gallants!” she shouts over the whine of cannon fire, the men shouting as wood splinters around them. “Go - “

 

“Captain!” Dufresne makes his way over to her, as another cannon makes the deck shudder under them. “The fort isn’t firing on them!”

 

“What - “ Flint swivels, and sure enough, the cannons aren’t firing on the side. “What the fuck are they doing?” 

 

“They’re not firing, captain!”

  
  


  * ••



  
  


Below, in the courtyard, Silver sees Eleanor striding up, hiking up her dress to move quicker to approach Billy. “Why the fuck aren’t we firing?” she demands. 

 

“We’re defending the men on the beach,” Billy tells her, as Eleanor comes close enough to hit him. “Hornigold’s men will wait until the Spanish make their landing - “

 

“And what about the men on those ships?” Eleanor demands. “They’re outmatched out there already, even more so without the fort firing upon those ships - “

 

“We can’t risk the damage, not now,” Billy says. “They won’t fire if we don’t.” 

 

“That’s a big fucking risk you’re going to take,” Eleanor snaps, her eyes narrowing. They stand opposite of each other, and she looks him up and down. “We’re going to stay true to the plan, and as soon as we cover the ships, we’ll meet the others in the northeast - "

 

“No, we aren’t."

 

“I’m not going to let you jeopardize all of their lives to fulfill some petty grudge,” Eleanor says, a challenging tilt to her chin, and that’s when Billy, entirely too calmly, draws his gun and points it at her. 

 

From behind him, Mr. Scott takes a step forward, his eyes on Billy. Silver says, “If we could just discuss this - “

 

“This is our way out of this,” Billy says, and it takes a moment for Silver to realize that he’s addressing her. “We’ll be rid of Flint, rid of Vane. Their way only leads to death for all of us, that much is clear.” 

 

“We’ll be left with no ships, and there’s still the matter of soldiers  _ storming the island _ \- "

 

“We’ll defend those on the beach the best we can, and in the meantime, we’ll be in this fort,” Billy says, and he jerks his chin at them. “I told you that there was a way you could redeem yourself.”

 

He raises his voice, then, to address the crowd. "Join me, and we will be free of Flint,” Billy says, at the men around them. “We’ll be free of their decisions, free of their motives - and if we work together, we can survive this."

 

Eleanor stares Billy down from the barrel of the gun. Around them, the men have stopped talking, moving, the only sound breaking the silence is the faint sound of cannons in the distance.

 

It doesn’t escape Silver's notice that in this moment, the men are looking at her. Not like Billy is keeping a careful eye on Eleanor, though, like she’s about to grab his gun from him - but the men are looking at her for guidance. 

 

She breathes in, out.  Measuring. 

 

“All right,” Silver says, and Billy gives her a quick nod. 

 

He removes the gun. When Silver looks over, Eleanor has turned angry eyes on her, Max looks horrified, and McGraw - well, the man’s expression is entirely flat, as he takes them both in. 

 

“I need to leave the fort,” McGraw repeats, and Billy makes some sound in his throat. 

 

“You’ll not be going anywhere. Take the three of them into one of the holds below,” Billy says. “It’s for your own good.” 

 

While he deals with the prisoners, Silver climbs the ladder, back to the top of the fort. The wood splinters under her palms, and for some reason, she thinks for a moment that it’s going to be a bother to get the tiny pieces out, can picture the time it’s going to take to pry them out of her skin. 

 

Muldoon and some of the other men are at the top. “Just like that, then?” he asks her as Silver approaches. “We’re just going to let that happen?” 

 

Silver keeps her eyes on the ships out on the bay. “Get ready,” Silver says, and Muldoon barely has the time to look confused before she picks up the fuse for the cannon. She’s never been one for prayer, really, but she thinks she should think something as she picks up the botefeux. 

 

“Silver?” It’s Billy now, who’s come up to the top level. “What are you doing?” 

 

Silver thinks to herself,  _ I should’ve burned that schedule and never looked back _ , and she fires the cannon. 

  
  


  * ••



  
  


Flint removes the spyglass from her eye, as she tries to make out what’s happening on the fort. They still aren’t firing, and as she turns her glass to the Ranger, she can see that they’re getting similarly pummeled by fire. Two of them have slipped by their lines already, heading towards the beach. 

 

She can’t see how Hornigold’s men are faring, but with any luck, they’ll be cutting around the island soon. She takes stock of the ship - they’re listing a little, and they’ve taken a few casualties, but with any luck, they’ll be under the protection of the fort once again, and they’ll be able to slip around by stealing that wind. 

 

If the fort starts firing. Whatever’s happening up there - without the protection of the fort, they won’t be able to go much further. Either way, they have to proceed. 

 

She needs to get men up to the fort, bring them back  -

 

“Prepare the port anchors,” Flint orders, turning her spyglass back to the fort. “Continue with the stern cannons.”

 

Then the fort fires.

  
  


  * ••



 

  
The sound registers before the pain - the gunshot ringing in her ears before she’s bowled over by the agony ricocheting up her leg, and her face is pressed against the dirt. 

 

There’s a shout, then another shot - and Silver can see, sideways, as Billy clutches a hand to his shoulder, the red blooming on his shirt as he, too, falls, the gun he had used to shoot Silver still clutched in his hand. 

  
“Silver!” she hears, and then there are hands on her shoulders, helping to rotate her until she’s on her back. She’s not sure who exactly shot Billy, only she sees a dozen concerned faces over her as she gasps with pain. 

 

“Who the fuck is shooting?” one of the men shouts. “Who - “ 

 

“Those are our brothers out there,” Muldoon says steadily from her side. “We’re not just going to let them die.” 

 

“Billy - ?” 

  
“Still alive,” Logan says from her other side. “Fucker.” 

 

“Put him in one of the cells,” Silver says, and her voice sounds strange to her own ears, as she tries to focus on anything other than the pain - “We need to fire on the warship - “

 

“Fire!” one of the men calls, from somewhere past her feet. Then the cannons start firing, and Silver closes her eyes, trying to focus on the sounds over the pain in her leg. 

  
  


  * ••



  
  


They manage to escape under the cover of the fort for long enough to slip around the island. Now that they’re not directly under fire, the eerie calm that settles over the ship is nearly as disconcerting. 

 

“What do you think happened in the fort?” Flint hears one of the crew say to the other. The injured men have been taken down below by now, their screaming muffled. 

 

“Can’t be good, can it? They began firing too late. Now they’ll be taking the full force of the warship as the others storm the beach. We might have a better shot at making it out than those poor bastards in the fort after all - "

 

Flint turns ever so slightly at that, and they fall silent. Her fingers tighten on the railing, as she watches the island drift by, and she listens to the sounds of the cannons going off, still audible from out here, in the distance. 

  
  


  * ••



  
  


They pull her down into the courtyard, and one of the men finds enough cloth to wrap around her shin, where the bullet entered. Silver grips onto Muldoon’s arm tightly as they do so, breathing in and out through her nose, her jaw clenched. 

 

She can’t think about the state of her leg. Not now, not when they need to clear out as soon as the Walrus is free of the ships in the bay. She tries to pay attention to what the men are shouting at each other, even as the pain’s reduced her mind to a fog, and blood seeping through the makeshift bandages. 

 

Now they’ve propped her up against on the walls, leaving her with Muldoon so that they can fire on the warship. Another hit shakes the ground under them, and Silver closes her eyes tightly. 

 

“We don’t have anywhere near enough guns,” Muldoon tells her, as they crowd beneath one of the walls in the vain attempt at protection. “If we go, we’ll just be caught out there - " 

 

“They’re going to raze this to the ground before we can fucking get out,” Silver gets out, just as the fort is struck once again, and they both flinch. “We need to go before they make it inland and we’re trapped- "

 

She’s interrupted by another hit, this one making bits of rock rain down on them. Muldoon says something under his breath, as Silver tried to blink away the dust that’s accumulating on them. 

 

One of the men comes over to them. “The east tunnel’s been collapsed - the building over it got hit or somethin’-”

 

“Fuck,” Silver swears, and she tries to lean forward to look around, her eyes falling on the sole cart, “We’ll take the gunpowder cart,” she orders, half a plan coming to mind, “Clear everyone out who can still walk _ , _ get out while you still can - “

 

The man obeys, and she turns around to see Eleanor and Mr. McGraw come up from the tunnels, both looking shaken. She had hoped that they had the common sense to leave through the tunnels before the collapse, but apparently, they can’t be that lucky. 

 

“What the fuck happened to you?” Eleanor demands, going over to where Silver and Muldoon are sitting, Mr. McGraw and Mr. Scott trailing her. 

 

“Fucking Billy,” Muldoon says, “Silver stood up to him, started firing the cannons - “ 

 

“Where is he?” Mr. Scott asks. 

 

“Somewhere below, I haven’t got a clue,” Muldoon says. 

 

“We can’t be in here,” Silver shouts over the sound of the fort being hit twice in quick succession. “Is there another tunnel that’ll lead us out?"

 

“Not unless you want to go right to the beach,” Eleanor says sharply, as Mr. McGraw wordlessly kneels beside Silver, his hands retying the bandage on her leg with practiced movements. “We’ll need to go through the gate, then somehow make it to the Ranger from there on -  it’s not long now before that wall gets knocked down - "

 

“I’ll lead the men to the Ranger, then I’ll come back with the cart,” Mr. Scott says, exchanging a look with Eleanor before he leaves. 

 

“And the Walrus?” Mr. McGraw asks, face tight as another cannon hits one of the top parts, this one causing larger pieces of rubble to come crashing down to the courtyard. He ducks, and Silver grits her teeth when his movement puts too much pressure on her leg. 

 

“She’ll be there too,” Silver says, then she realizes who they’re missing. “Where the fuck is Max?”

 

“She’s down below in the tunnels, gathering her papers - “ Eleanor is cut off by another cannon landing on the fort’s wall, the sound ringing out. “ _ Shit  _ \- "

 

“We need to get here now,” Silver barks, “Never mind the fucking  _ papers _ \- “ She realizes that they’re among the few left in the fort, the men from before having cleared out by now. “Go get here, unless she wants to still be around when the Spanish make it up here - "

 

Eleanor nods tightly. “I’ll go get her,” she says, hurrying down below. 

 

As soon as her blond head disappears, Silver turns to Muldoon and McGraw. “We need to signal the Walrus - “

 

There’s a strange whistle in the air, then, and Silver frowns, her thought interrupted. “Is that - “ she gets out, before she sees the wall in front of them begin to crumble, and she makes eye contact with McGraw, both of them coming to the horrible realization of what’s about to happen. 

 

She barely has enough time to lift an arm before the wall above them topples.  _ The gunpowder _ , Silver thinks to herself - and then the world is cast in fire and smoke, and everything goes dark. 

  
  


  * ••



  
  


Silver awakens to the sound of groaning around her, the crackle of wood on fire. She can feel pain radiating up her spine, something trickling down the side of her face, and when she tries to see around her, her eyelids feel thick and heavy, unable to move. 

 

She’s not sure how long she’s lying there, breathing in smoke and ash. She thinks dimly to herself that if the wall has fallen around them, that means that anyone can come in, and they’re undefended - 

 

There’s movement from beside her, and Silver forces her eyes open. She sees Muldoon, lying on his back beside her, blood down the side of his head. Silver she reaches out, touches him - and his skin is warm, but then she sees his wide, unseeing eyes, fixed on a point beyond them. 

 

Bile rises in her throat, and she drops her head down to his shoulder, her throat too dry to actually sob, squeezing her eyes shut like this is some horrible nightmare that she can wake up out of. 

 

There’s coughing from somewhere above her, then, Silver opens her eyes, manages to reach up with shaky hands to close Muldoon’s eyelids. 

 

She lets go of Muldoon, then, however reluctantly, and tries to move towards the sound. She forces her arms to move so that she can pull herself up, crawling despite her leg dragging behind her. 

 

She forces herself to keep on going, hearing movement around her. The ringing in her ears nearly drowns everything out, as she breathes in the thick air in shuddering breaths, her nails digging into the ground as she pulls herself forward.

 

Her fingers finally meet fabric, and Silver tugs, pulling herself until she can see the person’s face. It’s Mr. McGraw, his dark hair covered in ash, and as she watches, his eyes slide open ever so slightly to fix on her face. 

 

Relief floods her system. “Hey,” she manages in a hoarse voice, “We need to - get out - "

 

“You,” the man breathes out, nearly too quiet to make out over the groans of the injured and dying around them. “I thought - you - “ 

 

“Mr. McGraw,” Silver urges, and the words feel like they’re being scraped out from her throat, her voice coming out hoarse. “We need to get out of here - “

 

That’s when she realizes that her fingertips are stained with blood, and when she looks below his face, she sees too much blood - the pieces of rock embedded in his torso. McGraw’s eyes roll back for a moment, and Silver digs her nails into his arm. “Don’t - come on, we have to go - "

 

“You need - need to tell her,” McGraw gasps out, and Silver’s fingers tighten in his sleeve, helpless. “Tell - tell Flint - “ 

 

“I’ll tell her,” Silver promises, feeling something clench in her chest. “Save your words - “ 

 

“No - “ With a surprising amount of force for a dying man, he grasps her wrist. “She doesn’t. You have to - her - tell her - she’s alive -”

 

“What?” 

 

“Thomasine,” McGraw whispers, his dark eyes barely visible from beneath his eyelids. “You have to tell her - “ 

 

His grip slackens, and Silver watches as he stops moving. She feels the moment his heart stops under her palm, the thrumming ceasing under her fingertips until she’s just lying there next to a dead man, feeling as though she had tried to seize hold of the ocean and watched the water slip between her fingers until all she was left with was sand. 

 

She loses unconsciousness sometime after that, her hand still on his chest. 

  
  


  * ••



  
  


They make landing on one of the unobtrusive beaches, far enough away from the battle so that they can’t smell the saltpeter anymore. Flint lands in the marshy sand, the water dampening her ankles even through the leather of her boots.

 

They make it halfway up the path until they see a group coming down the same path. Flint gives a low whistle, and the men with her split to either side of the path, ducking low in case it’s an ambush. 

 

It’s not Spanish regulars who come over the hill, and for the bitterness that’s been hanging in her mouth even since they had caught sight of the ships quickly evaporates at the sight of Eleanor Guthrie leading a small entourage. The relief soon twists into something closer to panic when she doesn’t recognize anyone limping by the cart that Eleanor’s pulling with her. Although she appears unscathed, she’s covered with grime, and in the hand not holding reins, she has a pistol in her hand. 

 

She emerges from the reeds on the side of the path. “Eleanor,” she says, her men coming out behind her, and she ignores the pistol Eleanor pulls on her, “What happened?” 

 

“The warship turned its focus on the fort,” Eleanor rasps out, lowering the pistol. “Most of the men got out to meet with the Ranger." She glances back at the cart, which Flint realizes is filled not just with crates - there are people in there. 

 

Flint goes by her. She sees Max, who meets her gaze with a hollow look from where she’s sitting in the back. In her lap, Flint sees dark hair, and she recognizes the sharp point of Silver’s chin, her face twitching even as her eyes are closed. She sees the fabric of her trousers stained with blood, the bandages wrapped around her leg. 

 

“She was the one to make the fort fire on the warship,” Eleanor says, her eyes on Flint even as Flint stares, uncomprehending. “Billy shot her.” 

 

“Martin,” Flint says, forcing herself to stay calm even though she wants to scream, unwilling to conceive of the evidence in front of her -  “Where’s Martin?” 

  
  


  * ••



  
  


She comes to again, and she’s on a ship, the gentle rocking motion alerting her of her location before she forces her eyes open. 

 

She’s in the captain’s bed, positioned so that she can see the window on the far side of the room. There’s a blanket thrown over her, but before looking, Silver can feel a dull ache radiating from just below her knee. She glances down, sees how the fabric flattens out far too short, and it’s like she’s been knocked to the ground once again. 

 

She thinks she should do something - see just how much of her leg is left, perhaps - but then a voice comes from her side.  “You’re on the Walrus,” Flint says, seated at her desk, somewhat unnecessarily. “It’s been a few days. You’ve had a fever for much of the time - after the amputation.” 

 

Silver closes her eyes, swallows. “My leg?” 

 

"Howell determined that is was necessary when it started to become infected,” Flint says. Silver can hear the soft drag of the chair being pushed back, and then Flint is standing next to her. “The men said that you were the one they had to thank that most of them made it out of there. They seem to feel indebted to you.” 

 

Silver opens her eyes. “Captain, I was there - I was there when - “

 

“They’ve voted you quartermaster,” Flint interrupts, and Silver glances up at her. She’s holding a cup in her hands, which she holds out, and Silver accepts, feeling the drag of her fingertips over the rough back of Flint’s hand. “They seem to think that you - of all people - have their survival in their best interests. They said that Billy was willing to let them die out here.”

 

“And Dufresne?” Silver asks, processing this as she clenches onto the cup. “What did he have to say about that?” 

 

“He’s forced to stay quiet, for now, I suppose,” Flint says, “You might just be unrivaled in terms of their affection.”

 

“Nassau - ?”

 

“The fort was destroyed,” Flint says, and her eyes go distant as she looks out the window across the cabin, casting her face in sharp contrasts, “When we sailed away, we saw that they had lit fire to the town. There’s nothing left. We have yet to go back to search for survivors - “

 

Silver thinks of Mr. McGraw’s eyes, the dark irises peeking out from half-closed eyelids. She insists, trying to be gentle about it, “Captain - I was there. He - I’m sorry.” 

 

Something passes over Flint’s expression, something raw and too vivid to be tamped down like she usually does. Pain, Silver knows - she’s felt it before, just like she feels the dull ache in her leg, the realization that her future has been shaped in ways that are beyond her control.

 

What passes on Flint’s face, though, is beyond pain, and Silver sucks in a breath at the sight of it, the split second of anguish, despair, the loss that radiates out far beyond Flint’s clenched fists, the way her nostrils flare out for a moment before it’s replaced by a flat mask. She thinks it’s the expression a revenant might wear, unwillingly trapped in the world of the living.

 

Flint doesn’t say a word as she turns around, and she leaves Silver alone in the cabin. 

  
  


  * ••



  
  


That night, Silver is half-asleep when she hears Flint come back in.

  
She sees Flint standing in front of the bookshelf, motionless. She closes them again when Flint looks back at her, and opens them when she hears the sound of Flint’s jacket landing with a clunk on the ground.

 

Through half-open eyes, Silver watches as Flint cuts off her hair, the auburn locks floating to the ground. She watches as the tufts of hair accumulate on the ground, the knife dangling from Flint’s hand, as the captain’s shoulders begin to shake, and she sets down the blade with a thud on the desk. 

 

She pretends she’s asleep when she hears the bitten-off sobs, the choking sounds coming from her. 

  
  


  * ••



  
  


Her leg begins to heal, and a few days after Silver had first woken up on board the Walrus, Howell comes in with a metal leg for her. 

 

“It’s only for when you’re more healed,” he warns, “Otherwise, it could chafe against the wound and cause more infection.” 

 

Silver eyes the metal in his hand, and she swallows back the sound that threatens to emerge when he helps her put it on, the leather too tight over her knee. “Thank you,” she rasps out anyways, because he  _ is  _ trying. 

 

“The men are making preparations to help you,” Howell says, and he means it kindly, but the words make something inside her twist, even more when he adds, “For what you did - they’ll help you.” 

 

That just brings back the nausea, and she focuses on the buckles going up the side, not saying a word, until the doctor gets up and leaves.

  
  


  * ••



 

Flint wakes up, and for a moment, she can only breathe in the smell of salt, hear the faint clatter of motion outside the cabin.

 

Then she remembers, and it’s like the wound being reopened all over again. Flint sits up unsteadily in the cabin, feeling as though the air has been pulled from the room and she needs to get out - 

 

Across the room, Silver’s brow is faintly lined even she sleeps on, her fingers clenched in Flint’s blanket. Flint watches her sleep for a few moments, before she gets up, careful not to make any noise as she exits the cabin. 

 

When she emerges, Mr. Scott is waiting for her, “Captain,” he says, his eyes solemn. “There is something I need to discuss with you.”

 

Flint nods once. “What is it?” Her voice is a little strained around the edges, partly since she’s barely used it since they got back to the ship, only talking to DeGroot, the messenger from the Ranger - and Silver. She’s not been in a mood to talk to many people, but she knows Mr. Scott is like a father to Eleanor - and perhaps in her weariness, she’s willing to at least hear what he has to say. 

 

Mr. Scott says, “I know of a place where you can refit. Someplace that we will be safe, where I had hoped could have remained hidden from this world.” 

 

He pauses, as if he’s considering her, then adds, “After the events of this past week, I have realized that this place is not so separate from our world. If what I suspect you have planned for the future comes to light, all of us will need this place.”

  
  


  * ••



  
  


Learning how to walk again is slow, and when Flint isn’t in the cabin, Silver practices - stumbling around, clutching onto the ropes of her hammock, knocking off things from the desk as she falls. The boot hurts her stump even more, but she thinks that if she has to stand another moment of being trapped in the bed, she’ll just throw herself over the rail and be done with it. 

 

But through trial and error, she figures out how to balance just so, until she can stand upright and walk for short distances. It’s like walking on coals, but she’s always been good at getting over the pain, and on the third day, Silver makes it to the door.

 

The sunlight is nearly blinding when she opens the door. She squints out onto the deck, her hands flexing at her sides.

 

Flint is there, and Silver takes her newly shorn hair, the coat stretched out on her shoulders as her arms are crossed behind her. The men give her some second looks as she limps out, but none of them offer to help her - and she’s absurdly grateful for. 

 

Flint doesn’t look at her when she gets to her side, even though she knows that she must have heard her coming. “You’re better,” she says when Silver reaches her. There are dark circles under her eyes, hollows that look like she’s been getting even less sleep than Silver - that, combined with the short hair, makes her look like a ghost, and Silver isn’t sure if she were to reach out, touch her, if she would find flesh under her fingertips.

 

“Where are we?” Silver asks instead, looking out at the sea. The ocean seems to stretch out far beyond them, and the blue is a welcome sight after the hours she’s spent staring at the brown-gray-white tones of the captain’s cabin. Over the railing, she can see the Ranger in the distance following them, but the sea gives her no clues as to their location. “Are we heading to a port?” 

 

“We won’t be going to a port,” Flint says. She turns to look at Silver. “We’ll refit at an island that Mr. Scott has informed me about - home to a group of maroons and ex-slaves. If they allow us, we’ll make repairs to the ship, regroup.”

 

“Then what?” Silver asks, meeting her gaze. “There’s nothing to go back to. We have no gold. What do you plan on doing?”

 

Flint is silent, looking at her, and Silver realizes what’s wrong about this. Flint’s eyes are on her, but her gaze is empty - her face not contorted with grief, just - empty. 

 

She realizes that she doesn't just look like a ghost - she is a ghost. 

 

Flint looks at her for another moment, then without a word, she pushes by. Somehow, the apathy, it’s worse than the times Flint has insulted her, threatened her, hated her - it’s the nothingness that makes the hair on the back of Silver’s neck rise. 

 

Flint looks at her like she doesn’t care if Silver is there. She looks like she’s drifting in this world, so far removed that they could all be drowning and she wouldn’t lift a finger - only because she’s been drowning too, and she’s sinking to the bottom of the ocean, so far below them that she’s forgotten the taste of air.

  
  


  * ••



 


	3. london, 1705

 

**LONDON, 1705**

 

The admiral had insisted that the lieutenant attend the salon. He had sent notice for McGraw to meet him just days after the ship had arrived back in London, having produced some invitation that he was intent on making her go to. The event itself was a dinner, but he managed to procure an invitation to the salon held right after - one that promised social connections, he reminded her in the note he had sent to summon her to his office.

 

She had never had a fondness for the city -  the streets and buildings and air were all a blur of grey and brown to her, so unlike the shimmering colors of the ocean, or the rolling lands of the New World.

 

McGraw tightens her coat around her shoulders as she walked to the admiral’s office, as if the fabric will stave off the smoke and dirty air. Her gait is slightly uneven as she goes, her legs still used to the rolling deck of a ship. Some man bumps into her, but before she can do as much as flash a dirty look at him, he sees the blue of her uniform and backs off.

 

Hennessey receives her as soon as she arrives. “The people in attendance tonight are powerful acquaintances to have,” Hennessey says, leaning forward behind his desk, a certain look in his eye that McGraw usually associates with when she’s gotten into some fight and he’s had to defend her to her superiors. “Whitehall wants the support of the Navy, and the Navy requires those lords for our very existence. Those who have both wealth and idle interest in our proceedings are the sort who, James, will be strong allies.”

 

McGraw doesn’t let her fingers move from where she’s holding her hat in front of her. “Yes, sir.”

 

“The benefits to such friendships will be able to help you with your ambitions much more than even I could,” Hennessey says then, his face softening for the briefest moment. 

 

He gives her the information for tonight, the crisp paper of the invitation, and McGraw leaves. It’s started to rain, a thick drizzle that makes the steam rises off the ground as she walks, and it’s enough to make her miss Boston already. 

 

By the time she makes her way to the salon, the ballroom is already filled with people dancing, drinking and talking in turn. For the better part of an hour, McGraw stands awkwardly in the corner, her hands clasped behind her back in a military-straight posture she’s long used to. 

 

She watches as lords and ladies waltz by, the bright room full of chatter, music from a quartet playing from the next room over, and the occasional burst of laughter coming from the side. Hennessey had introduced her to several of them, but as soon as he had gone away to talk ship business with one of the other admirals from across the room, the prospect of a new, shiny lieutenant had quickly bored the few people who had dared to come over.

 

It didn’t help that she’s not good - at this. For all of her naval ability, both innate and born from a life spent at sea, and sharp wit, she’s never been comfortable socializing. Hennessey occasionally despairs over her sharp tongue, and he likes to remind her that she could go  _ even further if you just learned to keep your fists to yourself, son _ . 

 

For the briefest moment, she wonders they would think of her situation - a woman in a Navy uniform, one who has managed to climb the ranks by her own perseverance, her rank belonging to her and her alone. It’s already enough that they know she’s not royalty in any way, and she thinks that her true gender might cause some of the lords in this room to expire at the sheer concept. 

 

She pushes away the thought, though. It’s not the time for idle musing; if she just managed to stay for another hour, when Hennessey is on his third cup of Madeira, perhaps then she can slip back to the inn where she’s staying. 

 

At another particularly loud burst of laughter, McGraw can’t help but to feed her curiosity at its source, taking a step forward to glance around the corner into the next room. She can see across the ballroom there is a growing crowd of people who have gathered, men and women alike, and they seem to be the source of most of the noise this evening. 

 

One of the men - below a large painting of some stern-looking lord - steps back, and McGraw notes how they’re all gathered not in any random order, but so that they’re positioned around a single person. One of the man’s companions steps back with him, and in the widening gap, McGraw can see the person - the woman at the center of the crowd. 

 

The woman’s hands fly around as she speaks, the light catching the jewels on her fingers enough so that she can see the glint of light from here. The fine fabric of her sleeves reminding McGraw of the color of the sea far away from any land, but she’s not captured by the woman’s clothing - it’s her, as the people around her laugh again. She’s taller than even some of the men around her, her fair hair gathered on the top of her head. McGraw thinks she looks like a finely crafted sculpture that one might position at the heart of a museum, her elegant profile built to be illuminated.  

 

One of the other women by her side puts her hand on her arm, as if to hold herself up as she titters, while another man hands her a cup. McGraw watches as her pale hands wrap around the stem, and her own hands clench at her side ever so slightly. She feels her weight shift on her feet - and she’s never wanted to join a group so badly, without knowing what they’re talking about - she feels drawn to this woman, inexplicably, and she’s too caught at the sight to even question her motives in this. 

 

The tall woman’s eyes slide in between two of the men as they get themselves more wine from a passing footman. In between McGraw’s thudding heartbeat, their eyes meet. McGraw finds that she can’t look away even from the distance, as if the woman’s hands are around her wrists instead, pulling her in. 

 

The woman’s mouth curves up into a smile, tilting her head as if in response. She lifts her goblet, still looking at the lieutenant as though she’s toasting her, and the lieutenant’s throat tightens. 

 

McGraw is trapped by her gaze, as the room seems to grow quieter around her, something under her skin thrumming as she shifts her weight as if to step forward, towards her -

 

“A vision among us peasants, isn’t she?” a voice says from beside her, and McGraw tears her eyes away in surprise, dragging her foot back. The voice belongs to a dark-haired man, looking rather amused as he holds two goblets. “I remember the day we first met, at a dinner not unlike this.” 

 

”Apologies, my lord,” McGraw says, after a beat, and she rips her eyes away from the woman to address him. “Please forgive me for my impoliteness.”

 

“That’s why I crept up on you, lieutenant,” the man says with a cheeky twist to his mouth. “Would you care for some wine?”

 

McGraw tries her best to choke down the heady wine. “Thank you sir,” she says, as the man takes a drink as well. He nods over to the crowd.

 

“The delightful woman in question over there is my wife. I’m afraid she’s much more compelling than me as a discussion partner, but no one should be standing alone in here tonight.”

 

“She seems to be the light of the party,” McGraw says carefully, as another bout of laughter erupts from the crowd. She’s desperate to catch a glimpse back at the woman for reasons she still can’t fathom for its intensity, but the man next to her is still looking right at her, so she doesn’t dare break eye contact. 

 

“As she is the light of my life, rivaling the sun itself,” the man says, and his entire face softens as he turns to watch her over McGraw’s shoulder. “What is your name?”

 

“James McGraw, sir,” McGraw says, bowing towards him.  She wracks her brain for the man’s name - was he one of the Philpotts? - when the man gives a kind laugh, looking at her.

 

“Don’t fret on propriety for my sake, Lieutenant McGraw. My name is Martin Barlow, and over there is the fine Lady Thomasine.”

 

She recognizes the name, and the embarrassment hits her. “It is an honor to meet you, my lord,” McGraw says, bowing again, and Lord Barlow looks even more amused, if possible. “My superior, the admiral, has had nothing but favorable things to say about your family.”

 

“And I have heard nothing but promising things about you, lieutenant,” Lord Barlow says, adjusting his grip on the goblet. “Have you been back in London long?”

 

“I just came back from a few months in Boston, my lord,” McGraw says, and she tries not to fidget. “We were there to resupply one of the nearby trading colonies.”

 

“How fascinating,” Lord Barlow says, and to McGraw’s continued surprise, he actually looks interested, stepping closer to her. “You know, I recognize your name. Admiral Hennessey has nothing but the highest praise for his brilliant protege.”

 

“I- thank you, my lord,” McGraw says.

 

“I have never had much interest in the New World, I’m afraid, but my wife has always been the sort - oh, here she is now.”

 

Almost slowly, McGraw turns her head, as the woman she had seen before approaches. Lady Barlow is still smiling, as she comes to stop beside her husband, dipping her head to the lieutenant. “This is Lieutenant James McGraw,” Lord Barlow says, nodding to her. “He just came back from Boston.”

 

“It’s an honor to meet you, my lady,” McGraw says, bowing to her. When she dares glance up, Lady Barlow’s blue eyes are warm, a certain sharpness to them that should have her on edge if it wasn’t so enthralling.

 

“Boston?” the woman says, and her voice is warm, rich, as McGraw straightens up even more under her gaze. “A city set on a hill that cannot be hidden. That must have been such an experience, lieutenant. Were you there long?”

 

“Yes, my lady,” McGraw says. “We were there to assess the Navy’s strategic defenses and future implementations.”

 

She nearly winces as the words come out of her mouth - far from intelligent discourse that might interest a lady of her standing - but the woman actually looks interested in her words. “Oh, you must tell me all about it,” Lady Barlow says, and then to McGraw’s surprise, she leans in.  “Lieutenant McGraw, I have many questions on the economic viability of the tea trade they’re setting up in Boston - do you have an opinion on the recent proposal involving the merchants in - "

 

“My dear,” Lord Barlow says, sounding amused, but McGraw can’t drag her eyes away from Lady Barlow’s focused ones. “The lieutenant here has likely told to be on his best behavior in front of the Navy personnel here, so if you ask him about any controversial opinions, he might be put in a rather awkward position.”

 

“I don’t mind, sir,” McGraw tries, but Lady Barlow puts her hand on her forearm, and she forgets how to breathe for a moment.

 

“Of course. Forgive me, lieutenant. My husband, as ever, is the voice of reason,” she says, her lips curving up into a smile. “Please, I must invite you to dine with us. There, we can meet on equal footing, and you can talk to me about trade policy.”

 

Her eyes dart to Lord Barlow, but he simply has a smile on his face as he too waits for her answer. “I’d be honored, my lady,” McGraw says, and Lady Barlow’s smile grows on her face, and now the breath that she regained becomes trapped in her throat once more.

  
  


  * ••



  
  


She thinks that if the admiral were the sort of man to be strongly taken with emotion, there would be tears in his eyes when she mentions that she received an invitation to the Barlow’s estate for dinner. 

 

“The Barlows are a fine, however unknown, family,” the admiral says meaningfully, “But the man’s wife is of the Hamilton family - proprietors of the  _ Bahamas _ , James, and without a male heir, Lord Hamilton’s holdings with go to Lord Barlow one day, and that would be an excellent alliance."

 

“Yes, sir,” McGraw says, resisting the urge to snort. “I’ll be on my best behavior.”

 

Hennessy gives her a fond look at that, and he calls for a carriage to take her back to the inn so that she can get ready. On the way there, McGraw watches the streets pass her by from the window, and nervousness - anticipation -  brews in her gut. 

 

The footman opens the door to the Barlow estate, escorting her to a parlor to wait until he alerts the lord and the lady of her arrival. McGraw tries not to gawk at the elaborate tapestries, the plush lounges, until footsteps approach. 

 

“Lieutenant McGraw,” Lady Barlow says, beaming, as Lord Barlow escorts her into the room. “Thank you for coming tonight.”

 

“It was my honor, my lady, my lord,” McGraw says, bowing to them. The couple exchanges a look before Lord Barlow clasps her shoulder. 

 

“Can I get you something to drink, lieutenant? I’ve just received a delightful French red that would be suitable, I would think, before dinner. Tommy enjoys her brandy, though, if that would be more to your taste.”

 

“Oh, you should bring up the vintage that Peter gifted us,” Lady Barlow tells her husband, putting a hand on his arm. “Don’t drop it this time, though, or we’ll never hear the end of it from him."

 

McGraw is startled at the easy banter between them - and what’s more, Lord Barlow just lets out an exasperated sigh before departing. From the little she knows about noble couples, it’s certainly not for them to fall to easy interactions - or to even like each other, for that matter. 

 

She also didn’t expect for him to leave then, leaving her alone with his wife. McGraw straightens up even more, making sure not to even fidget the slightest, even when Lady Barlow looks right at her with an intensity that McGraw thinks might be unrivaled in all that she’s seen. 

 

“Lieutenant,” the lady says then, “Are you familiar with the pirates of Nassau?”

 

“Nassau?” McGraw is caught by the shift. “I am.” 

 

“My father, the earl, holds the title to the island,” Lady Barlow says. “He’s been tasked with solving the problems that plague its shores. They say it started with a man named Henry Avery. He sailed into the port of Nassau, bribed the colonial governor to look past his sins, encamped his crew upon the beach, and thus began the pirate issue on New Providence Island.” 

 

She’s not sure what to say, but Lady Barlow continues, “My father has asked Her Majesty's Navy for its help in pacifying the island. As he is a very busy man, he delegated the task to his heir at this time - my husband.”

 

She’s not sure where this is heading, and feels caught out under Lady Barlow’s steady gaze. “I’m sure Lord Barlow is well suited for the task,” she says finally. 

 

“Well, my husband isn’t entirely fond of philosophical debate,” Lady Barlow says, with a slight smile on her face, “Especially not with politicians. He sees the realistic side of the world, and while I do enjoy our debates, it does not make him very convincing in Parliament. For all their talk of pragmatism, they yearn for the ideal, the ideas that advance all of us in this world. But he is a man, and they listen to him there.”

 

She’s still lost. “My lady?” 

 

“I had my husband canvass a number of his former classmates about your reputation, lieutenant,” the woman says, and McGraw can feel her eyes widen. “The son of a carpenter, no record of any formal schooling, and yet they say you are a rising star with a bright future in the Admiralty. I believe that you might keep an open to mind to what I am about to proposition to you.”

 

The word nearly brings color to her cheeks. “My lady, I’m not sure what you mean,” McGraw says honestly. 

 

Lady Barlow takes a step closer to her, and McGraw has to tilt her head up to maintain eye contact. “Lieutenant, we intend to save Nassau before she is lost forever,” she says. “For all my husband’s distaste for politics, he is a valuable partner to me because he can go where I cannot, to have a voice to where I am stifled.” 

 

“My lady,” McGraw manages. “I - I don’t understand - "

 

“You are a rising star with a bright future in the Admiralty,” Lady Barlow says, her eyes wide in their earnestness. “I have a vision for Nassau that I wish to implement, and I do wish to gain another partner - your help - in seeing this through. I wish for your help.” 

 

“Already with the business talk, is it?” Lord Barlow says, entering from the other side of the room, and McGraw realizes that she and the lady are far closer than strictly proper. She takes a step back, still processing, as he continues, “Has my wife shocked you too much, then, lieutenant?” 

 

She’s not sure there’s an entirely proper answer to that question, so she settles on, “No - my lord."

 

“Forgive me, lieutenant, my wife can be rather overwhelming when she talks of her plans,” Lord Barlow says, sending a warning look at his. Lady Barlow, on the other hand, just rolls her eyes before fixing the lieutenant with another searching look. 

 

“My husband might be right, but I refuse to apologize for my straight-forwardness,” she says. “Lieutenant, I believe that you might be key in implementing what comes next, and I think that you might have an open mind to this unorthodox arrangement.”

 

“I - “ she doesn’t know what to say, especially not when Lady Barlow is looking at her like that, the intensity of her focus something she is utterly unprepared for. “You would want my opinion as from the Navy? My lady, I’m not sure if I am what you seek - you know I have no formal schooling - “

 

“If this is too far from comfortable, then you shall tell me now, and we will have dinner and then you can be on your way, and you never have to think about Nassau again.” She waits, expectantly, as McGraw looks at Lord Barlow, then back at her. “But I truly believe that you are the person who I seek in this.” 

 

In the corner of the room, there’s a tall grandfather clock. As the two wait, McGraw hears the ticking, and then that’s what she uses to ground herself, her mind working once she’s given the chance to consider the proposal.

 

“This is far from comfortable,” McGraw starts slowly, and there’s flicker of something like disappointment across Lady Barlow’s face. The sight casts something heavy in her stomach, and so she adds before she can convince herself out of it, “But if you are to implement any change in Nassau for its economic viability, you will need a liaison to the Navy. I could be that - if you would like.” 

 

Disappointment is replaced by something far brighter, enough so that McGraw nearly feels the need to look away, sure that she’s staring at the pleased surprise on Lady Barlow’s face. “Excellent,” she says then, looking at her in an entirely new light. “Well, I am glad to hear it.” 

 

“Lieutenant McGraw, I do believe that this is the start of something great,” Lord Barlow says from beside them, watching as Lady Barlow holds out her hand. McGraw stares at it for a moment - she’s holding her hand out like a man would, for the lieutenant to shake, not to kiss - and after another moment, McGraw takes it.

 

Lady Barlow’s hand is warm and dry under hers as they shake hands, and Lord Barlow adds, “Let us go to dinner, to discuss this further.”

  
  


  * ••



 

Early on in their partnership, the Barlows insist that the lieutenant call them by their given names. “If we are to be partners, all pretense of hierarchy are to be removed, should they not?” Lady Barlow questions. 

 

“My lady, I cannot - “ 

 

“My husband and our friends call me Tommy,” she says, waving a hand and ignoring the lieutenant’s protests. “Thomasine is rather a mouthful, don’t you think? Besides, it’s somewhat of a joke between my husband and I - see, in my youth, I published a series of pamphlets under the name Thomas, and when we were married, my husband came up with the name when I was being particularly stubborn over some debate point.” 

 

“If you think she’s stubborn now, you should’ve met her at twenty,” Lord Barlow says in the corner, where he’s reading a book. “Absolutely horrible. I was lucky to get a word in during our entire courtship.” 

 

“That’s why you married me, isn’t it?” 

 

_ Pamphlets _ . McGraw wonders, not for the first time, what exactly she has gotten into. 

 

“You can call me Tommy as well,” Lady Barlow decides. “My husband goes by his Christian name as well.” 

 

“Martin is rather better than Thomasine,” the lord says, flipping a page. “I dread to think of the nicknames you could derive from that, actually.” 

 

McGraw tries again. “I cannot -  to be frank, it would be improper, my lady.” 

 

“As improper as a woman ordering her husband what to say in a court?” Lady Barlow’s eyes slide behind her to meet the lord’s. “As improper as, perhaps, a woman conducting business like a man would?” 

 

She has no good answer to that, and Lady Barlow’s mouth twitches. “Lieutenant, I do believe I’m not familiar with your own given name."

 

“My name is James,” the lieutenant says finally, and not for the first time, the breath is caught in her chest at the smile Lady Barlow gives her. 

 

Something in Lady Barlow’s eyes sparks, and McGraw thinks to herself that it is one of the greatest injustices of this world that not everyone can see the way she looks in that moment, her face glowing. “There,” she says grandly. “Now, tell me what you know about the cultivation of tobacco in the Bahamas - “

  
  


  * ••



 

“- but even you believe this endeavor is doomed to fail,” Lady Barlow finishes. “Isn’t that so?” 

 

“Beg pardon, my lady but I didn't say that,” McGraw says. “I merely said that it would be wise for us to manage our expectations as to what's achievable.”

 

They’re in the study that McGraw had assumed was Lord Barlow’s, until Lady Barlow had gone around the desk and sat in the chair with the sort of ease that indicated the true ownership of the room. The bookshelves are lined with volumes that make her fingers itch just looking at them, even as she settles in the chair across the desk, and they had begun to discuss the pitfalls of Nassau. 

 

Something glimmers in the lady’s eyes - perhaps amusement - at her reply. “And what is it that you think is achievable?”

 

She considers her words. “The pirate issue is troubling, yes,” McGraw says, “But I believe that there are ways to remedy it.” 

 

“I don't believe the pirates are the cause of Nassau's problem,” Lady Barlow says. “Let us not discuss them, in favor of more fruitful paths.” 

 

“Pardon me?” 

 

“I believe they are a symptom,” she says frankly, and McGraw can feel her face slacken in surprise. “The root causes are the ones that I would like to address first.”

 

She leans back in her chair. “Root causes?” 

 

“The graft of its governor,” Lady Barlow tells her. “The incompetence of its managers, the neglect of its lords - the instability caused by these things is what draws the pirates to Nassau, not the other way around. Now, what is it that you believe would return Nassau to stable profitability?”

 

If she had any idea that Lady Barlow was just another aristocrat - that this whole endeavor was little more than a passing amusement for a bored, wealthy woman, that she had not given any real thought to this - her assumptions are quickly dissipated as the lady speaks with an authority usually found in kings. McGraw catches up on her words, thinking. “You mean aside from removing the pirates?”

 

That amused look flickers across the woman’s face again, and it makes something curl in her gut in response - annoyance, perhaps. “Let's leave them out for now, yes.”

 

The words come out as she thinks, her eyes focusing on the gold leaf edges of the books on the lady’s desk. “Farmers, men skilled in the cultivation of sugar and tobacco,” McGraw says, her mind working. “Magistrates to maintain order, carpenters to raise buildings. Clergy to raise spirits. Foodstuffs to sustain them all for six months, perhaps a year - three ships to transport it all, sailors to sail them. And an honest governor, the first in recent memory, to oversee it all.”

 

“Oh?” 

 

“In short, you'd be assembling a colony, boarding it onto ships, transporting it across the Atlantic, and hoping that when it arrives, it takes to an environment that has resisted every attempt at stable commerce for the past fifty years.” She pauses, as if for effect, but mostly to observe the slowly growing smile that’s been spreading on Lady Barlow’s face. “Oh, and then there are the pirates that we've agreed not to discuss.”

 

She’s worried that she’s been too sharp, unrefined, but she had been honest, as Lady Barlow had asked. McGraw braces herself, but instead of dismissing her, the lady says, “The New World is a gift, lieutenant, a sacred opportunity to right our wrongs and begin anew. I do not want my family's plot in it to be the reason for its fall.”

 

“My lady?”

 

“ I'm not looking for someone to hold my hand,” Lady Barlow informs her. “I need someone who can help me ensure that Nassau survives. The stakes are too great for anything else.

 

“And you suspect that I'm that person despite the fact that it's clear that we both view the world very differently?”

 

“Because of it,” Lady Barlow says, and a real smile comes to her face at last. “Strange pairs, lieutenant - they can achieve the most unexpected things.”

  
  


  * ••



  
  


There’s a knock at her door, and McGraw glances up. It’s too late for it to be the landlord - and so she rises, uncertainty, putting aside the logs that she had been reviewing before her meeting with Lady Barlow the next day. “Hello?” 

 

“It’s Martin,” the person on the other side of the door says. “Lieutenant, can you let me in?” 

 

_ Martin _ ? She glances down at herself, then grabs her coat to drape over her shoulders, bringing it around her. It’s rather chilly in the room, so it’s not too out of place, as she opens the door. “Lord Barlow, I apologize, I didn’t expect you - “

 

“Now, we’re beyond that, aren’t we?” the man says breezily, moving by her. “Your quarters are rather - Spartan, I must say. It’s rather refreshing, I must admit. Tommy has just acquired a set of tapestries, and while they are lovely, the dust is making my head ache - “

 

“My lord,” McGraw says, still standing by the door. “While I appreciate your company, I must insist - please, let me call you a carriage.” 

 

“Lieutenant,” Lord Barlow says, turning around to face her, something gleaming in his eyes. “Are you familiar with Jeanne d’Arc?”

 

Her eyes go past him, to the books on her desk. “I’m afraid not.” 

 

“It was said that she received holy visions that told her she was to lead the French to victory during the Siege of Orléans,” Lord Barlow continues, and she feels a burst of affection for the way his hands move as he speaks, temporarily distracted by what he’s eager to share. “A turning point in the war, and led by a woman, for that.” 

 

McGraw waits, but he doesn’t seem pressed to continue. “My lord,” she starts, “If I can call your carriage - ?“

 

“This business with the pirates of the Bahamas,” Lord Barlow says, “I’m beginning to realize the consequences that it might have - not just for my wife, but for you, for all of us. There is a reason why it is an unpopular battle to fight, and it’s because piracy is how many of those lords maintain a profit in the new world. Even this war shows that fear is a powerful motivator and what better way than to capitalize on that fear than by using the threat of pirates?” 

 

He takes a step closer to her. “My wife and I, as you might have heard by now, have an unorthodox relationship,” Lord Barlow says, his eyes on her, and she feels flushed under his gaze - but not unpleasantly so. “We’re not ashamed of what they say about us - what you’ve heard about, no doubt.” 

 

She has heard rumors of the Barlows - the whispers of affairs, the salacious details of which had made her cheeks burn -  and the idea that he might think that she’s joined in on such horrid conversation makes her feel sick for a moment. “My lord,” she hurries, “What they say - people will gossip - “

 

He waves a hand, though. “Oh, it’s likely entirely true,” he says easily. “It is a terrible thing that we live in a society where such things are forced to stay in the dark, like we should be left in the shadows with our shame. The only reason my wife and I are forced to be - discreet, in our relationships, is because of our political aspirations, after all. London thrives on shame, and it seems that they are used as weapons only when one threatens to step out into the light to try to effect some change.” 

 

She’s still lost. “It’s a shame,” she says slowly, “You and Lady Barlow - you see the world as it should be - and I only wish the world shared in your vision.” 

 

He gives a laugh at that. “You must remember that I’m not quite the idealist that my wife is,” he says kindly. “Lieutenant - if I may, what is your name?” 

 

“I was named James after my grandfather’s brother,” she says after a moment. 

 

“I meant your true name,” Lord Barlow says, ever so gently, and she can feel herself still.  “Unless I’m wrong about this - and please, we shall forget about it if I am -  but what is your name?” 

 

She inhales. There’s no way - 

 

But his eyes, still so warm, catch hers. “I ask because I suspect you have carried around such a secret for a long time,” Lord Barlow says. “Not to catch you unaware - in fact, if you don’t want to speak of it, we never have to. But in case, I would offer myself as someone who you can relieve that burden with.” 

 

The risk is great here. She’s never told anyone - after her grandfather died, she had gone to London, where she had met Hennessey. He had assumed her to be a red-haired boy, thin-faced and scrawny, and it had helped that her jaw was rather square for a woman, and through years of being so very careful, she had ridden that assumption - because how could a woman rise in the Navy’s ranks? 

 

No one’s ever realized, she thinks. No one except for this man in front of her.

 

But for the short time she’s known the Barlows, she realizes she trusts them. That’s what shakes her now, in the cool air of her room, as Lord Barlow watches her as one might avoid startling a scared animal. She says, “Does - does Lady Barlow know?” 

 

“No,” he says, after a long pause. “I have not talked to her about this, out of respect for your wishes. But she would - she would be of a similar mind like me, in this.” He smiles a little, then, a little mischievously. “I did tell her that I would be visiting you, and she told me to tell you that she would like to see you at dinner in two days. She has quite an idea about the problem of the tobacco cultivation - “

 

“My lord -  _ Martin _ ,” she says, firmly, and he looks pleased at the use of his name. “Why are you here?” 

 

“Well,” Lord Barlow says diplomatically, “I would think that there are some more obvious disadvantages of your concealed gender.” He doesn’t look shy, but he does cast his eyes beside her for a moment. “When’s the last time you’ve let someone close to you?”

McGraw feels herself swallow. He’s a handsome man, she thinks to herself, as from up close, she can see how there are flecks of gold in his irises when they catch the candlelight. But he can’t be - does he think - 

 

“Are you here on business?” she asks evenly, and watches as his head tilts. 

 

“I don’t think so,” he says, and now she lets herself take a small step towards him, watch his eyes light up. “Should I be?”

 

In response, McGraw makes the decision. She lets the coat fall off of her shoulders, as Martin’s fingers go to his cravat, pulling it free. She reaches forward, hesitantly, and he guides her hand to the back of his head as he pulls her in.

 

Later, when they’re sprawled out in her too-small bed, Martin lets out a breathless laugh, and she shivers at the air on her neck. “You know, even when I thought you a simple lieutenant, I probably would’ve still shown up,” he reveals. “You’re gorgeous, man or woman.” 

 

McGraw’s surprised at this, and she finds herself at a loss of words at the implication, stuttering, “Are you - do you - “

 

“On occasion,” Martin says, and he props himself up on an elbow above her. She’s nearly afraid of what he’s about to ask - but he changes the subject, perhaps after feeling her tense. “Now that you’ve hopefully relaxed some, I must ask your opinion on something very serious.”

 

She can’t help the smile that blooms on her face, and that, if anything, makes him look far more satisfied. “What is it?” 

 

“I would’ve thought that the extent of your freckles ended at your collar, but it seems that they’re delightfully everywhere,” Martin muses. “Care to comment how you’ve managed to get those there?“

  
  


  * ••



  
  


It had happened during a meeting with Hennessey.

 

After she had spent the day observing drills on the ship, he had taken her to one of the taverns.

  
“And how is your business with the Barlows?” the admiral asks, and McGraw sets down her tankard of ale. “You’re still working with the lord, I presume?” 

 

“They’re - “ she wracks her mind for a few words that would fully describe the two, but she’s not sure if even if she had every language at the tip of her tongue, it could ever be enough. “They see the world very differently than you or I. They’re bright, determined, wealthy - “

 

“They?” Hennessey queries, and underneath the table, McGraw forces her hand to unclench, aware of her mistake. 

 

“The lady is a good companion to him,” she says, “From what I have seen, she speaks her mind in front of him. They - he lets her contribute to the discussion that we have.” 

 

The words, however innocent, burn away at her tongue - she hates speaking of Lady Barlow like that, like some pet allowed to come out at Lord Barlow’s permission, but it makes the admiral nod as if in understanding, however reluctantly.

 

“Well, I suppose that he’s the sort of liberal man to allow that,” the admiral says. 

 

“You might like them, sir,” McGraw ventures, as his eyebrows raise. “They are eccentric, yes, but I’ve been to their salons -  the ones that half the Royal Society attend, but most deny exist. Most of those men are pretenders, sir, attracted to - Lord Barlow’s ideas because they make them feel like radicals. But when he speaks of the need to rethink things, systemic things, I think he truly believes what he's saying - what's more, I'm afraid I might believe a good deal of it as well.”

 

She thinks about Lady Barlow’s radiant expression as she had debated with some lord over the merits of public education, prodding and throwing his words back at him until the lord had been forced to. The lady had held out her hand to shake, so that even as he grumbled over being bested, he had walked out of that room like a changed man.

 

Anyone who has spent at least a few minutes with Lady Barlow likely has had a similar experience, after all.  

 

“You’re right, they are eccentric,” the admiral says, and he looks at her searchingly, as she waits for whatever he has to add. “Lieutenant - I hope I don’t have to remind you to be careful, with those people. No matter what radical ideas that you might be exposed to - do keep your judgement intact.” 

 

“Of course, sir,” she says, and the admiral finishes his drink. 

 

“Off to ship’s business, I’m afraid,” he says. McGraw nods, standing up as he does. As the admiral leaves, she takes their tankard to the bar, ordering them more ale.

 

It’s a bout of laughter, followed by whispering, that captures her attention. McGraw glances up, and there’s a group of men - fellow Navy - gathered on the far end of the tavern. One of them meets her eyes challengingly, and she stares back.

 

It’s not long before one of them sidles up to her. “Lieutenant McGraw, is it?” he says, and although nothing about his words is untoward, she immediately takes a dislike to his tone. 

 

“A pleasure,” she says stiffly. “Pardon me, I must be going - “

 

“You’re that liaison to the Barlows, are you not?” the man leans in, even more. “A very dignified position, no doubt, for a low-bred fellow such as yourself.” 

 

She can’t help the clench of her jaw, and the man must see, for he presses on, “I have no doubt that such a position has many  _ benefits _ associated with it. I’ve heard that if you are in the favor of Lord Barlow, he might even let you fuck his wife - “

 

The next few moments are a blur, as McGraw rounds on the man, smashing the tankard into the knuckles of his hand on the bar surface, making him howl. She grabs his head, then, forcing his head towards her knee, and she hears the crunch of bone. One of his friends comes over, then, and he lands a punch that makes her see stars for a moment - but then she hits him, again and again, barely registering the pain as the fury that floods her system overwhelms - 

 

“Enough!” Hennessey’s voice rings out in the tavern. McGraw lets go of the man, who stumbles away. “If you are a man in Her Majesty’s Navy, I suggest you leave this establishment  _ at once _ .”

 

The words ring through the sudden silence, and one by one, the Navy officers file out. Hennessey looks at her, disapproval etched in his features, as she feels blood trickle down the cut on her lip. 

 

His words echo in her ears long after she had left the tavern.

 

_ “That thing which arises in you when passions are aroused good sense escapes you,” he tells her, watching as she wipes blood from her mouth. “All men have it. But yours is different - darker, wilder. I imagine it's what makes you so effective as an officer, But when exposed to extremes, I could not imagine what it is capable of - and of greater concern, I'm not sure you do either.” _

 

Only she had come back to her room, and there had been a message waiting for her. Lord Barlow had requested her presence at his house, only the letter had been signed with an ornate  _ T _ , and so she had no choice but to head to the estate with barely enough time to readjust her hair. 

 

She’s lucky she doesn’t have a black eye, but the cut on her lip will surely raise questions. McGraw bows her head as she enters the study where the maid had told her the lady was located. “Lady Barlow.” 

 

“Lieutenant,” Lady Barlow says from across the room, pushing papers to the far end. There’s a smudge of ink on the back of her hand as she distractedly tucks a piece of hair behind her ear. McGraw has never met a noblewoman who has her own desk - let alone one far more massive than the one that her husband has - and yet Lady Barlow occupies the space as naturally as any scholar hard at study. “Thank you for coming here despite the hour. I have just received word from Peter about a new series of taxes that might affect our future proceedings.” 

 

Lady Barlow had introduced her to Peter Ashe just a few weeks ago. He is one of the few people that the Barlows consider their friend, and having grown up with Lady Barlow, he is also one of the select few who knows about her involvement with the Bahamas plan. For a lord, he had been remarkably quick to respect the lieutenant’s contributions to their discussions. 

 

“It’s nothing, my lady,” she says, making sure to stay just out of sight of the lantern that’s burning on the corner of the desk. “What did Lord Ashe say about the taxes?”

 

“It’s a rather tricky situation, as he describes,” Lady Barlow starts, glancing up, and then she stands up abruptly at whatever she sees. “Dear God - what happened to you?” 

 

She cringes. “Apologies, there was an incident - “

 

“An incident? It looks as though as you’ve been in a fight,” Lady Barlow says, and she comes around the desk. “Are you hurt?” 

 

“I’ll be fine,” McGraw says quickly, as Lady Barlow’s blue eyes drop down to no doubt look at the bruise she’s sure is forming on her jaw. “What can I help you with?”

 

“Oh, never mind that,” the lady says, fondly exasperated as she moves around McGraw to call out of the door, “Mary - could you please bring us a bowl of hot water and a cloth?” 

 

That’s how McGraw finds herself perched on the edge of the settee in the side lounge, as Lady Barlow had instructed her, and watching as the woman brings over the cloth and bowl. “I’m quite fine, my lady,“ she tries, and then she lets out a surprised exhale when Lady Barlow sets down the bowl close to her foot, the warmth seeping out even through the leather of her boot as some of the liquid escape its container. 

 

“You’re still bleeding,” Lady Barlow points out, and she goes to her knees in front of her. McGraw feels a flush starting to crawl up her neck, wishing that her legs were closed for this - only if she were to move now, her knees would hit into either side of Lady Barlow’s torso, and so she stays incredibly still as Lady Barlow shifts forward in front of her, dipping the cloth into the water. 

 

“Your hands,” she says softly, and it takes McGraw a moment to relax her grip on the edge of the couch, bringing them forward. She watches as Lady Barlow brings the damp cloth to her knuckles, gently rubbing away the dried blood, careful over where the skin had split on one hand. 

 

“Once, Martin and I were out riding in the countryside,” Lady Barlow says, focused on her task at hand. McGraw watches her pale eyelashes flutter as she continues, “His horse was scared by a snake or something, we never saw what it was. He was thrown from his horse, and only because I had known my horse for years that I didn’t follow suit.” 

 

She lets out an amused breath, then, dipping the cloth back into the water and picking up McGraw’s other hand, swabbing at it delicately. “He was a little shaken, but his pride was more bruised than anything. Afterwards, he let me take care of him, just like this.” Her movements still for a moment. “When he spoke, it was as though he was my equal - that we shared a mind, the same convictions, and more importantly, he listened. That’s when I knew I would marry him.” 

 

“You love him very much,” McGraw says after a moment, daring to be as bold. Lady Barlow meets her eyes, and she hadn’t realized how close they are, not until she can see how there’s a little freckle on the side of her nose from here. 

 

“He’s an easy man to love,” she says, “Although I’m sure you understand that.” 

 

The words hit her, and then the implications make her color. “My lady - “

 

“I know you’ve been sharing a bed,” Lady Barlow says, and then she backtracks at whatever she sees on her face. “I didn’t mean to pry - oh, lieutenant, forgive me, I’ve been too forward, Martin’s always warning me about this exactly - ” 

 

“He loves you,” McGraw says in a rush. “He - no matter what we - “ With the lack of words at her disposal, she puts her own hand on top of Lady Barlow’s, and the contact sends a thrill down her spine. “My lady, I’m the one who should be asking your forgiveness.”

 

“Absolutely not,” Lady Barlow says, her tone firm. “You and Martin have found happiness in each other, and I refuse to let you apologize for that.”

 

Her tone is resolute, and McGraw feels her words die on her tongue. “My lady,” she starts, then swallows. “I do. Care for him, that is.” 

 

Lady Barlow’s nose crinkles up as she smiles. “I know that,” she says, much too gently. “I’m happy for both of you.” 

 

She’s not sure if the lady knows just how dangerous the information she possesses is, as she looks down at her scuffed boots, the polished wooden floor of the Barlow’s parlor. Men have been convicted of sodomy for less - hung for less. Even if what they’ve been doing isn’t what it seems - the thought of Lady Barlow betraying them in that matter in unfathomable, but still, the panic rises in her chest. 

 

“Lieutenant, look at me,” Lady Barlow says softly, but insistently, and McGraw faintly realizes that she might not be as good as hiding her emotions around this woman, for whatever reason. “I need you to know that I would never betray your trust. Your relationship with my husband - it shouldn’t be hidden, but I will do my part in making sure that the two of you are never placed under the scrutiny that could harm either of you.” 

 

The words hit her, and she gapes at her, wordless. 

 

Lady Barlow’s looking at her like she’s considering something, and she sets down the cloth in a smooth gesture, as if turning over words in her mind. “I myself,” she begins, “Understand what it’s like to hide things. I don’t wish for you to ever feel the need to lie to me - “

 

The thought of Lady Barlow revealing anything, especially after she’s treated her with nothing but kindness and understanding, makes something twist in McGraw’s gut. She can’t hide from her, not this, not when Lady Barlow thinks she knows everything about her.

 

McGraw moves suddenly to stand up, jostling the bowl of water in the process. Lady Barlow rises as well, and her eyebrows rise as McGraw’s mouth drops open, as she tries to find the words to tell her, looking up into those clear blue eyes. 

 

Instead, McGraw settles on pulling the coat from her, dropping it onto the couch. “I need to let you know,” she blurts out, then stuttering when she sees Lady Barlow’s raised eyebrow. “Just - please, my lady - “

 

As she pulls the vest, then the shirtsleeves over her head, she can nearly feel the lady’s eyes on her. As she stands there, the cloth bunched in her hands, she resists the urge to say anything, letting Lady Barlow’s eyes rove over her torso, seeing the cloth wrapped around her chest, tucked neatly from years of practice, and she tries not to shiver. 

 

“Oh,” Lady Barlow says. “ _ Oh _ .”

 

McGraw squeezes her eyes shut. “I have not been entirely honest with you,” she confesses. 

 

But words fail her once again, as she feels the lightest touch on her rib cage. When she opens her eyes, Lady Barlow’s eyes are fixed on a bruise on her ribcage, peeking out from below the bandages, and her fingertips trace up the discoloration so softly she could weep. 

 

“Is this from the incident, earlier?” she asks, her mouth tight - not because of what she’s showing her, McGraw realizes, but truly because of the injury. 

 

“It’s nothing,” McGraw says, watching and feeling like her legs have turned to stone as Lady Barlow ducks down, picks up the damp cloth.

 

She presses the cloth to the bruise on her side, and McGraw feels the water trickle down to disappear into the waistband of her trousers. She glances up, and sees that Lady Barlow’s eyes on on hers, watching, as she stands there with the cloth pressed on her side, her hand warm even through the material. 

 

The corner of Lady Barlow’s -  _ Tommy _ ’s - mouth twitches, and McGraw feels everything so keenly as the other woman runs the cloth in the tiniest of circles on her skin, and she feels the water running down her side, cooling as it slides down the plane of her stomach. Lady Barlow passes the cloth over the scrape she’d received last week from catching a loose rope on her forearm, the small bruise from the recoil of a gun on the side of her neck.

 

The touch remains clinical, but McGraw has to fight not to shiver as each pass, forces herself not to step even closer to her. It has less to do with the cloth and more the drag of Tommy’s fingertips against her that she feels clean, replenished, reborn, the whole world narrowing down to the way Tommy’s mouth shifts even as they stand there, as she tends to her wounds. While she had felt alive when Martin’s teeth had scraped down the same spots, where his mouth had kissed down her torso, here, she feels something beyond life - something approaching eternal, this moment suspended like a dream. 

 

Later, when Lady Barlow calls her a carriage, and she’s redressed, tucked back into the carriage leading her back to her room, she thinks about the feeling of the bump on Tommy’s ring finger - from countless hours of holding a quill, no doubt - grazing over her skin. 

  
  


  * ••



  
  


“You has a good grasp on a dilemma that the Navy does not know the answer to, either,” McGraw says, her sleeves rolled up as she leans on the table. “I’ve seen Nassau for myself - it grows wild outside the influence of the Navy, especially now that pirates rule the island. With these modifications, we could have a chance at all of it.”

 

They’re back in the study, and Martin has come in and out during the hours they had spent debating in there. She thinks that she and Tommy have debating for days at this point, going over elements of the proposal that Tommy intends to have Martin present in Parliament next week as a sort of start about their vision for the islands. 

 

Tommy has loosened the bodice of her dress, and each time she shifts forward, the material tugs down. McGraw has to force her eyes to stay on her face, but luckily, Tommy doesn’t notice, as she asks, “Would the pirates not agree to go under rule if it means more stable profits for them?”

 

“They’re men far from being civilized, and the prospect of going back under colonial rule is repulsive to most of them,” McGraw points out. “They make far more money stealing goods and selling them back to merchants, and it doesn’t help that the merchants are content to break the law for a better profit either.” 

 

Tommy sits back in her chair, frustrated. “Then what would work? Tell me, what could ever tame the wild lands of Nassau that you’ve described, convince these men that we should all be working for a better future?”

 

“Honestly, you’d best be finding a way to go back in time and remove the source of their distrust,” McGraw says, and internally, she winces. They’ve come far in the past few months - Martin was right, Tommy is  _ infuriating  _ when she digs her heels in, but she’s by far a worthy adversary of debate such as in these moments. Hours can go by - and they have - of the two of them discussing the plan, arguing politics, philosophy, anything. 

 

They work well together. But she’s begun to realize that once the plans for Nassau have been solidified, once Martin presents his case, she won’t have any excuse to come to the Barlow estate. The thought makes her chest ache in a way that’s far more painful than what she had been prepared for - the realization that the closest she’s ever felt at home is in these walls. 

 

There’s a knock on the door, and Martin sticks his head in. “Forgive my interruption,” he says, “But I’ve been sent a message.”

 

“A message?” Tommy says, and her eyes go from McGraw to her husband. “Surely it isn’t anything that can’t wait - “

 

“It’s from your father,” Martin finishes, and Tommy falls silent, her mouth closing with a quiet sound. “He wishes to be invited over for dinner tonight, and he expects a full report of our efforts to devise a plan for the management of Nassau.”

 

Tommy scoffs, as McGraw looks between them. “Surely he didn’t refer to it as that way.”

 

“He addressed the letter to me, yes,” Martin says, “But I thought I’d set the record straight for now.” He glances at the lieutenant, and there’s something that she can’t quite read in his eyes. 

 

“Your father doesn’t know about your involvement in the plan?” McGraw asks, curiosity getting the better of her as she looks back at Tommy. She’s heard of Lord Hamilton, of his reputation - but perhaps since Tommy is his sole daughter, they might have some sort of relationship. 

 

As she watches, she sees something dark grow on Tommy’s expression, and she knows the answer before Tommy even opens her mouth. “My father wanted an obedient son, never mind an outspoken daughter,” she tells her. “We are not cordial, to say the least.”

 

“What my wife means to say is that he knows that she’s the brains behind this operation, despite the fact he’d rather die than have word of it come out,” Martin says, something ugly in his voice. “Alfred Hamilton is no friend of this household.” 

 

McGraw straightens up in the seat. “Shall I be leaving - ?”

 

“Stay,” Tommy urges, with another wordless expression at her husband, before she looks at the lieutenant again. “I would send word to Peter to come over, but if this is to happen, we might need Alfred to think that he at least has him still on his side.” 

 

“I’ll tell the servants to prepare dinner,” Martin says, and the soft click of the door signals his departure. 

 

McGraw puts her entire focus on Tommy, as she says,  “There is one more aspect to the plan - one that I had hoped to discuss with you without the added pressure of my father’s visit impending. I do not wish his presence on you, not at all, but if you can, please, stay.” 

 

Despite the worried line that’s grown on Tommy’s forehead, McGraw can’t help the quirk of her mouth. “Another aspect? I didn't think we had one of those.”

 

Tommy smiles, but it does little to relieve the worry on her face. “These past few months I have come to trust you,” she says, and her face shifts into something much more vulnerable - something that McGraw is astonished with the effect that it has on her. “Very much. Which is why I feel I can ask for your help.”

 

“Anything,” McGraw says, and she should be scared by the intensity behind her promise, but she can’t be bothered. Let her be damned, if it means reliving any worry that Tommy might feel in the meantime. 

 

“When my father arrives, I intend to propose something to him which could be very dangerous politically,” Tommy says, and for the first time, McGraw would say that she nearly sounds shy, before she clears her throat, looks at her right in the eye. “I want you to try to talk me out of it.”

  
  


  * ••



 

McGraw lets the door to the study close, and she lets out the breath that she’s been holding ever since Tommy had started to talk to her.

 

There’s footsteps, and then Martin appears, his eyes zeroing on her. “Lieutenant? Are you quite alright?”

 

McGraw takes a few steps forward - and she knows that it’s near impossible to hear anything through the thick doors of the study, but she lowers her voice anyways. “Did you know about this?”

 

“Know about what?” 

 

McGraw looks back at the door, regardless, before whispering, “Tommy wants to  _ pardon _ the pirates?” 

 

“I did,” Martin says, and McGraw sucks in a breath. “She’s been ruminating on it for a while, now. I suspect that she put off bringing it up to avoid this very reaction you’re having.” 

 

“Martin, she - you can’t let her do this -  this will make us all enemies of Parliament, label us traitors if it goes the wrong way - “ The dull panic is back, radiating out from her gut until she can barely feel the tips of her fingers.

  
“Tommy understands the danger inherent of such a proposal, as do I - “

 

“It’s beyond  _ dangerous  _ -”

 

“I don’t control my wife,” Martin says, sharp, but he softens at the urgency that must be spreading across her face. “And I agree with you. But out of the two of us, I would say that you would have to be the one to convince her not to pursue this.” 

 

The words come as a surprise. “What?” 

 

Martin looks at her with fondness in his eyes, but there’s also something a little wistful as he reaches out, runs a thumb over her jaw. McGraw would pull away, only they’re alone, as he says, “She brought it up to you because you’re the only person in this world who could convince her otherwise - not me, not Peter Ashe, not Parliament - not the Queen herself, I’d suspect.”

 

“She’s going to bring it up to her father tonight,” McGraw tells him, helpless. “This could undo everything that we’ve worked for, but she insists that it all hinges on the pardons.”

 

“Then convince her otherwise,” Martin says firmly. “You can, I know it.” 

  
  


  * ••



 

The earl is an unpleasant man, she learns quickly. He gives a disparaging look at McGraw’s uniform before turning to his daughter and son-in-law. “I didn’t know the Navy would be present tonight,” he sneers. 

 

“Lieutenant McGraw has been valuable in our plans for the Bahamas,” Martin says firmly, as they’re all seated around the table. “He is here tonight because of the role he has played.” 

 

McGraw is so used to the usual setup of how they eat meals in this house - Martin on one side of the table, Tommy across from him, and herself at one end, so that they can both talk to her easily and she can watch them go back and forth -  that she nearly walks past her own chair.  

 

“He’s been quite a good friend as well,” Tommy adds, and there’s a strange tone to her voice that makes the lieutenant glance over to her. “Father, how is your new wife?” 

 

“Very well,” the earl sniffs, and then he turns to Martin. “Well, you’d best tell me about this plan of yours, then.” 

 

As Martin talks, McGraw keeps an eye on Tommy, seated across from her. She watches as Tommy’s fingers clench onto the tablecloth, then disappear under the table whenever Alfred Hamilton makes a disparaging noise at something that Martin says. To his credit, Martin doesn’t flinch, delivering his words with a certain crispness that seems unique to him. 

 

The table is broad, but if McGraw stretches out her leg, she’s able to just touch the edge of Tommy’s shoe under her boot. It’s meant in reassurance, or just solidarity in that moment, and she’s not sure if the other woman can even feel it -  but the next time she looks up across the table, she meets Tommy’s gaze, those blue eyes fixed on her, and she gives the tiniest nod in reply. 

 

“...under the new governor's rule, we hope to have control over the island by early next year,” Martin says. “That, sir, is what we know will succeed in pacifying the inhabitants and solidifying the economic interests.” 

 

“What, might I ask, gives you the confidence that this will work?” the earl asks, looking nearly bored - but McGraw has long learned that such men are never bored, they just wait as a hunter might wait for a fox to fall into its trap. “Do you have a method to deal with the pirates of Nassau? Or is it arrogance that has blinded you - ” 

 

“We want to pardon the pirates.” Tommy’s voice echoes in the room. For a moment, the only sound in the room is the crackling of the logs in the hearth, the warmth not nearly enough to chase away the cold sensation that follows when the earl purses his lips, looking right at his daughter. 

 

“What was that?” 

 

“We want to put them to work on the island,” Tommy says, despite the warning looks that Martin gives her, and McGraw can only watch -  “Tilling, harvesting, coopering, building, smithing, fishing - “

 

“Thomasine, what on earth are you talking about?” 

 

“We intend to secure blanket amnesty for any man who will accept it,” Tommy says, and her voice grows stronger as she goes on. “In exchange for his allegiance, his renunciation of violence and his labor - a pardon for past crimes.” 

 

“Lord Barlow, I suggest you control your wife,” the earl says coldly. “I will not waste my time listening to this womanly nonsense - “

 

“Lord Hamilton, I suggest that we put aside pretense for a moment,” Martin says, and there’s an edge to his voice. “You know that your daughter has one of the most brilliant minds in London, and this plan is entirely thanks to her - “

 

McGraw watches as the earl’s face shifts into something like disbelief, as Tommy continues, “You asked me to formulate a plan, that is what we have done - “

 

“I asked you to formulate a plan that would secure the support of Her Majesty's Navy in our efforts,” the earl snaps. “Support without which there is little chance of reversing the catastrophic downward trend in revenue from the Bahama territories, support that is almost certain to disappear entirely and for good the moment they hear they are to be associated with a plan to reward men who are in open revolt against the Crown!”

 

“This is the solution most likely to lead to our desired result,” Tommy argues, with that sort of unique, radiant passion that makes McGraw nearly forget how the earl is barely retraining himself from leaping at her, the worried looks that Martin keeps on shooting at her, or the high spots of color that are rising on Tommy’s cheeks. “The pardons are the ideal solution - “

 

McGraw looks at the determined set of Tommy’s features, her hands splayed on the table as she implores her father, “- and it also has the virtue of being the right thing to do!”

 

In that moment, she realizes that she loves her. 

 

_ She loves her _ . 

 

She realizes she’s staring at Tommy, even when the earl says coldly, “Lieutenant, am I right to assume that a proposal such as this - 

 

“Don't look at him,” Tommy says. “Talk to me, not my husband, not the lieutenant. Your reluctance to see what is right has nothing to do with the plan, and more to do with your inability to see that I have always had a voice that you have tried to remove - “

 

“This isn’t your goddamn salon, Thomasine - “

 

“- we are fighting a war in the service of the son of God, and it is treason to offer forgiveness to any man who would seek it? What in the hell is it you think we're doing here?” Tommy finishes, furious, and there’s a moment of silence. “Well?” 

 

“My daughter is impertinent, Lieutenant,” the earl says finally, and McGraw can hear Tommy’s jaw snap shut. “She is self-indulged, she is self-righteous. But she's not stupid. If I were a rival of this family, I would be shouting from the rooftops that any man who proposes to pardon a traitor in times such as these is himself a traitor - especially a man who has been manipulated by his wife to do so.”

 

“She does not manipulate me, sir,” Martin says. “Perhaps it is time - “

 

“Then you agree with her?” the earl says, dangerously. “Well? How about you, then, lieutenant?” 

 

“Both the lieutenant and Martin have expressed their reservations with this particular part,” Tommy says, with a glance at her husband. “Father, if you could just realize that this is the best way to achieve - “

 

“You have done enough to damage the good name of this family,” the earl says then, and he leans forward, his meal forgotten, and McGraw watches as Tommy’s back goes ramrod straight. “You are a piece of work, Thomasine. You’ve managed to twist your husband in this sick matter, and now you’ve corrupted the lieutenant as well - did you convince him with your silly words, or did you open your legs to him too - “

 

“I support it.” McGraw doesn’t realize that she’s spoken until the words ring out in the dining room. The earl’s head swivels back to look at her, and she continues, “I found her argument persuasive, her intent to be good and true, and I find yours wanting, sir.”

 

She stands up, then, and the chair screeches out behind her, and it’s the look on Tommy’s face that gives her the bravery to continue, “I will be relaying my findings to Admiral Hennessey in short order. And now, I think it's time you left, sir.”

 

The silence stretches out, and then the earl pushes back his chair as well. “Gentlemen,” he says curtly, and he leaves the room. They all listen as the door slams shut, the footsteps of the doorman fading away as they’re left alone. 

 

Now that he’s gone, McGraw realizes what exactly she’s done. She stands, stupefied, her eyes cast down - she can’t look at Tommy or Martin now, not that she’s ruined it all - 

 

“He will stop at nothing to ensure that this plan never sees the light of day,” Tommy says, and she sounds slightly distant. “And now you're in the line of fire too.” 

 

“People can say what they like about you.” McGraw can barely recognize her own voice, hoarse with something beyond the words she had shouted at the earl. “But you're a good woman. More people should say that. And someone should be willing to defend it.”

 

Some part of her tells her that she could at least avert her gaze, for proprietary - to salvage whatever relationship she has with the Barlows here - but she can’t, not even when Tommy gets up, and suddenly she’s close enough that McGraw has to look up, helplessly drawn to her in a way that she feels like if Tommy were to push her away in this moment, she would fall through space forever, drifting aimlessly - and she wouldn’t care, if it meant Tommy could touch her again. 

 

She can’t say anything, but it turns out she doesn’t have to, as Tommy’s hand makes its way to her face. Her thumb brushes over her lower lip, and McGraw lets her mouth part under the touch. The room thrums and swells around them, the air seeming to pulse, but she can’t focus on that, not when Tommy dips her head. “Jane,” she says, and then they’re kissing.

 

Her mouth is cool on McGraw’s, soft and hesitant even though she  _ knows _ her, and Tommy has never hesitated a day in her life. Then she kisses her back, because she doesn’t want Tommy to think that she has made a mistake, not ever. When their mouths slide together, and it’s as though the temperature in the room has gone up, like they’ve made it so high in the sky that there’s nothing between them and the sun, and the only reason she isn’t burning up is that her hands have made it to Tommy’s shoulders, and they’re kissing and she's flying - 

  
  


  * ••



  
  


McGraw has never enjoyed her room. The windows are drafty, and the glass panes end up being too small and low on the wall to bring in any real light. But with Tommy pressed against her, her weight pinning her down to the mattress as they gasp into each other’s mouths, she’s beginning to associate this place with the feeling of happiness that threatens to spill out from between her lips each time she’s witness to the sight of Tommy’s eyes flying open as she shudders above her. The sight of her coming might be as close as McGraw thinks she’ll ever get to seeing the face of God. When Tommy’s mouth is on her, it brings in a hazy sort of light to that room that makes everything bright even in the quietest hours of night. 

 

All the times that Tommy has been there - sharing McGraw’s bed in every sense of the word, from times when they’re moaning into each other’s skin to when Tommy reads to her, her fingers gently tangled in undone hair -  it’s like time doesn’t apply inside those four walls. When she’s not there, McGraw misses her like her rib’s been pulled out of her chest, that she only feels complete when Tommy is smiling at her. 

 

“When’s the last time either one of us have eaten?” Tommy asks, when they’re both caught deliciously between awakeness and sleep. 

 

McGraw shifts, and she can feel the tickle of Tommy’s long hair against her face. “Didn’t we have breakfast with Martin this morning?” 

 

“But that was this morning,” Tommy says, teasingly brushing kisses against her head. “We haven’t had anything to eat - well, no  _ food _ to eat in hours.”

 

“Are you asking me to get us food?” 

  
“Well,” Tommy says, and she presses closer to McGraw, which she hadn’t thought was even possible, “I was hoping to persuade you, so that you’d hurry right back.”

 

“All right, all right,” McGraw grumbles, forcing her eyes open and pulling away, even when Tommy’s hands chase her. “You are a  _ menace _ \- “

 

Eventually, after Tommy presses kisses all over her face and neck, McGraw extricates herself from the bed. She pulls on a shirt, despite Tommy’s fingers immediately making their way underneath the fabric. She bats them away, half-heartedly, and eventually Tommy rolls over onto her back, watching as McGraw pulls on her trousers. 

 

“We should go to the countryside,” Tommy says, as McGraw’s slipping on her boots. “Martin and I have an estate out there. We could give the servants a break, after all. There’s this pool, underneath this massive weeping willow tree, like something out of a novel, and at sunset, the whole water lights up with the colors of the sky. We could eat by the water, spend days just lying about in the grass, swimming, get to all sorts of debauchery - what do you think?” 

 

She pauses where she’s fastening her boots. “You can swim?” 

 

“Well, no, but I happen to know of a charming Navy lieutenant who can perhaps teach me,” Tommy says, rolling onto her stomach then, and McGraw gives a huff. “What do you think?”

 

“I think that you’d just argue with the water until you stopped sinking, use your persuasive ways to defeat physics.” Tommy swats at her playfully, and McGraw grins at her before adding, “I’d have to check with the admiral, I suppose - “

 

Tommy beams at her. “Now hurry back with that food,” she says, as McGraw fastens her coat around her, making sure her appearance is suitable to be outside, “And I’ll show you just how persuasive I can be. Double time, lieutenant!”

 

“Right away, my lady,” McGraw says, saluting, and she closes the door to Tommy’s laughter. 

 

Downstairs, she leans against the counter across the inn’s kitchen. The innkeeper had disappeared to procure bread and stew for her, and as McGraw waits, her back to the entrance, she hears the door swing open, then the footsteps. 

 

“Lieutenant McGraw?” A deep voice sounds from behind her.

 

“Yes?” There’s a group of four men, all Naval officers, and their eyes are fixed on her. She feels something cold run through her veins, and she thinks about Tommy, sprawled out in the sheets upstairs - 

 

“The admiral requests your presence,” the man says. “We have been told to bring you to his offices.” 

 

McGraw glances at the mirrored surface behind the bar, where the innkeeper is standing, holding the tray of food, watching them. “Allow me to just fetch my hat - “

 

“You’ll be coming with us now,” the man says, and he steps in closer, so that just she can hear. “You can make this difficult, or you can come now, without a struggle.” 

 

She can’t struggle, even if it wasn’t four men up against her - if she struggles, they might go up and find Tommy. So she gives a sharp nod, trying not to let the fear show on her expression, and without another word, they escort her out to the carriage.

 

As they pull away from the front of the inn, a man to either side of her, McGraw catches sight of the window of her room, facing the street. She thinks she might see a flicker of movement behind the curtain, but perhaps her eyes deceive her. 

  
  


  * ••



 

  
The men bracket her to either side the entire way to the admiral’s office, one of them knocking on his door.

  
The door opens, and McGraw sees Hennessey, standing there with a grim line to his mouth. “Lieutenant,” he says, “I told you not to get involved with these people.” 

 

Then she sees Alfred Hamilton behind him, and that’s when she starts to realize that her world is falling apart. 

 

“You think you could get away with it?” the earl says, his face twitching in barely-concealed rage from where he’s seated in the corner of Hennessey’s office. “Your deceit, your sin?” 

 

She turns to the admiral, desperate in a way that she’s never felt before. “Sir, I don’t know what he’s told you - “

  
“Silence,” the admiral says, and he looks so disappointed, betrayed, that it makes McGraw forget how to breathe. “I thought you had heeded my warning to take care, to keep your judgment intact with those people.” 

 

“I have, sir, let me defend myself - “

 

“It has already been decided,” the earl says, his lip curling. “You should be thanking the Admiral that you are not already strung up on the gallows, that he decided to put forward the investigation which has saved your neck - “

 

“ _ Please _ , sir - “

 

“The earl had come forward with an accusation of sodomy,” Hennessey says, and it’s like a punch to her gut. “However, in the Navy’s investigation, it has been discovered that you have been deceitful in the terms of your enlistment.”

 

“A woman, masquerading as an officer,” the Earl spits out from across the room, his beady eyes fixed on her like he’s enjoying her pain, as McGraw reels, “You should be ashamed.” 

 

“While the original charges are no longer applicable, you must still face the consequences of your deceit.” The Admiral nearly seems to falter, ever so slightly, under McGraw’s horrified eyes, before he adds, “And especially given the -  nature of your relationship with Lady Barlow, the earl and I have decided on this sentence to be carried out swiftly, privately - “

 

It’s like someone’s shot a cannon nearby, how the ringing in her ears has intensified as the admiral continues, “You are to be stripped of your rank, summarily discharged from service. No further charges will be drawn against you, provided you leave London quietly, and you are neither seen nor heard from again - “

 

“Loathsome,” Hamilton says like he’s echoing the admiral in some horrible dream, only it isn’t a dream, and she can feel her breathing get shallow - “You think that not a whisper of what you’ve done would reach me? In my own house?” 

 

“If either the earl or I feel that this bargain has been breached, the charges brought against you will be swift and unyielding-”

 

“ - with this mess that I am forced to conceal, to deal with my whore daughter, I should have you hung anyways - “

 

“What have you done,” McGraw whispers, as the admiral continues, then louder, “What did you do?” 

 

She’s across the room before she realizes it, her hands digging into the earl’s throat. She hears the admiral shouting behind her, hands at her arms, but she squeezes Alfred Hamilton’s throat, sees his eyes bug out in fear. “ _ What did you do _ ?” 

 

“Lieutenant!” the admiral shouts, and she realizes that the earl’s gasping for air, and she lets go of him belatedly, feeling numbness creep into her limbs. Killing the earl won’t help her now not when she needs to get back, get to her - “Miss McGraw, you must leave this office this instance, before I am forced to apply a harsher sentence to you.”

 

She turns around, and there’s regret on his face. Instinctively, she knows that there was no investigation.  _ He knew, all this time -  _ and the look on the admiral’s face confirms it, even as he stands, resolute, letting this happen to her.

 

“Admiral,” McGraw whispers, “Please - “

 

“Go,” he says. “Now.”

  
  


  * ••



  
  


She goes back to the inn, first, and she barely pays mind to the people eating as she rushes by them, taking the stairs three at a time. “Tommy!” she shouts, rounding the corner, fear plucking at her as she runs down the corridor. “Tommy!”   
  


The door’s ajar, and it’s sickening, how familiar the fear is at this point. She’s stuck, looking at the rumpled sheets across the room, the book that’s been abandoned on the pillow - and then she sees the blood. The knife, discarded near the headboard. 

 

“No,” McGraw says, sinking to her knees, her vision blurring as she takes in the puddle - too much for a minor injury. The color seeps into the floorboards, and she doesn't dare reach out, touch it, in case it confirms that this is real - it can’t be - 

 

“They took her,” a voice comes from behind her, and McGraw swipes at her face, rising and turning around. It’s the innkeeper, who watches her carefully.  “Shortly after you left with those men, they came for that woman. She was bloodied up real bad when they dragged her out.” 

 

For a moment, the world goes silent. She doesn’t dare say it out loud, but she needs to know - “Did they - was she - “

 

“She killed someone, I think,” the woman says, and the sound comes back, only everything is too noisy and she digs her fingers into the floorboards until she can feel the wood digging underneath her nails -  “They took out a body. Some lord or something. Suppose they all die like the rest of us, ain’t it?” 

  
  


  * ••



  
  


She doesn’t realize that her feet have taken her to the Barlow estate until she’s knocking on the door, her fingers digging into her palms the entire time. The footman opens the door, and she pushes by him blindly, seeking out Martin. 

 

He’s in the main room, slumped in a chair. The relief nearly makes her go weak-kneed. “Martin,” she gasps out, crossing the room to sink to her knees in front of him, “They took her - I don’t know where - “

 

“Bethlem,” Martin says, too steady, and when he lifts his face, she can see the tear stains going down his cheeks. “They took her to Bethlem Royal Hospital. Alfred had just meant to take her back to his estate, to keep a closer eye on her, now that both of us were to be removed, but I suppose it didn’t work out quite how he supposed.” He lets out a bitter laugh, as McGraw gapes. 

 

“What -  _ how _ \- “

 

“The story that they’ll tell is how she had an affair with her husband’s lieutenant,” Martin says, and his gaze is vacant. “In a fit of hysteria, she killed her husband’s friend who had come to confront them. She is to be institutionalized there on orders of her father, the Earl of Ashbourne. I have been told to vacate this house by nightfall, never to return.” 

 

“Martin - - how did anyone  _ know _ \- “

 

“Peter Ashe,” Martin spits the words out, and the sudden vehemence should shock her, but she hasn’t felt anything ever since she had seen Lord Hamilton in Hennessey’s office, as he rises to meet her eye. “I realized it the moment they told me he was dead. Peter betrayed us to Alfred - he must have given his testimony. It could have only been him - Tommy must have figured it out.”

 

“What are you saying - that she - “

 

“Maybe she killed him,” Martin says, and his eyes are glassy. “Or maybe she didn’t. Either way, what’s the point now?” He sways closer to her like he’s confessing as he says, “I wish I could have killed him -  I would have killed him. Peter, Alfred - all of them.”  

 

“No,” McGraw whispers, and something knots under her breastbone. Her mind is still stuck in circles, caught in a riptide of her grief, as she processes all of this.  _ Hennessey knows, Alfred Hamilton knows, the whole of London will know - but they’ll never know  -  _ “Martin, what do we do - “

 

“We need to get out,” Martin tells her, and his grip must be tight on her arm, but she can barely feel it. “It’s not safe for us - we need to leave this place.”

 

“I’m not going anywhere,” McGraw chokes out. “I’m going to get her out - “

 

“You can’t - “ and Martin’s voice is caught on a waver, and she realizes that he feels as helpless as she does. “She made me promise her - that if it ever came to this - that I would get out. Tommy - Tommy is gone.” 

 

The numbness slowly goes away, until she can feel her body again, only what replaces it is the white-hot rage. She feels the anger curdling the corners of her soul, the flames consuming her bones, and she swears in that moment, she won’t rest until she sees them all  _ burn _ for what they’ve done. 

  
He’s still talking, as she accepts this new, dark reality like she’s being buried alive - “I have friends in Brussels, Paris, Amsterdam - “

 

“We’re not going to Paris, not to Brussels,” McGraw tells him, and her voice is just above a whisper, but she feels like she’s screaming. “We won’t be going to your friends.” 

 

She can see the moment he realizes. After a moment, the light from the fireplace reflecting in his pupils, he nods. 

 

On the ship to Nassau, she finds the book tucked among her belongings. She can’t remember if Martin packed it, if he had taken it from her coat, or if she had left it in the house, so careless a few days prior to their world tumbling down - 

 

_ My truest love _ , and her fingers catch on the page, tracing over the words, as she huddles on the ground, next to the overturned bag until Martin finds her.  _ Know no shame _ . 

  
  


  * ••



  
  


**BAHAMA ISLANDS, 1715**

 

She’s standing in the middle of the cottage, and the sunlight filtering in the window is warm on her bare toes. She wiggles them, sees the dust that’s displaced float around her feet. 

 

There’s a faint tapping on the window, and Flint crosses the room. Only the tapping ceases when she gets close to the glass. She presses her fingertips against it, sees her fingerprints smudge the glass, and she remembers carefully carrying those pieces of glass, wrapped up in brown paper and tied with twine, tucked away in the cart that she had driven out here to where he was waiting - 

 

Then the glass falls out of the panes. Only instead of shattering around her feet, they float just like the dust. She reaches forward, tries to catch them, and that’s when they drop to the ground. Yet she barely registers the pain as the glass embeds itself into her skin, instead looking up through the window frame - and he’s there. 

 

She straightens up, and he’s standing on the other side of the window, his mouth trapped in a pained howl. She reaches forward, trying to get to him, only the glass has reformed and she can’t quite make it, trapped by the thin layer of glass. 

 

Someone behind her grabs her wrist, and she realizes there’s blood dripping down her fingertips from where she was trying to pick up the pieces of glass before. She tries her best to clutch onto the wooden frame of the window, even though now her fingers are leaving bloody trails on the wood, and the hand around her wrist tugs again, as she squeezes her eyes shut -

 

 

Flint’s eyes snap open, and her whole body is tingling in the way that it gets when you’re pulled from a vivid dream, her senses reacting to reality. She feels the crushing exhaustion next, just as she registers eyes on her.

 

“What is it?” she grits out, her throat sore. She knows who it is based on the thunk the metal leg makes, its owner releasing an exhale as she leans against the table that’s been pushed in the center of the room.

 

“We’re about to make landfall on the island Mr. Scott told us about,” Silver tells her. “I thought you would want to be awake for that.” 

 

Flint pushes herself off the cot. “Where’s the Ranger?” 

 

“Hanging back until Mr. Scott’s signal is appreciated by its inhabitants,” Silver says. “The way he described it to you - how many do you think are there?” 

 

“He’s been at Eleanor’s side since before I arrived in Nassau,” Flint says, running a hand over her face. “At least ten years of hiding away people - there could be hundreds.”

 

“And how exactly do you think they’ll take to us showing up on their shores, demanding their assistance?” Silver points out. She looks different, Flint realizes, and she realizes it’s that she’s wearing her hair pulled back at the temples, revealing several small earrings studding her lobes. She hadn’t noticed that Silver had gotten her ears pierced.

 

“I suppose they’ll need to be convinced,” Flint says shortly, and when she rises, her muscles groan at the movement. She walks by Silver, opening the door to go onto the deck. 

 

To her displeasure, Vane is on board, waiting for her. He’s accompanied by Eleanor Guthrie and Mr. Scott, who turn at the sight of her. “I thought you’d be staying on board your own ship,” Flint tells him. Behind her, she can hear Silver emerge from the cabin, her distinct footsteps soon pausing. 

 

“I’m going to shore along with you,” Vane answers. “If we’re to convince these people that they need to trust us - “

 

“They’re not going to trust you,” Mr. Scott says bluntly. “You’re two strange pirate captains, fleeing from a disaster of your own creation. To them, you are danger, and they’ll want to get rid of the threat.” 

  
“What, and you’re going to stand by as they execute us?” 

 

“Charles,” Eleanor says, sending a sharp look to Vane. “Mr. Scott, do you not hold any sway over their decisions?” 

 

“My wife is queen there,” Mr. Scott says finally, and Flint sees how Eleanor takes a sharp breath in, “Her word is final, not mine. If I can convince her, there is a possible alliance here. The island has only existed all these years from my providing them with the resources they could not cultivate there. Now that we have lost Nassau, they will need to rely on us for those resources, and we might be able to provide them that in exchange for their hospitality.” 

 

Flint herself had thought that Mr. Scott’s wife and child had died in the Rosario raids, but it seems that she was not the only one he had duped. Eleanor looks stunned, still, as Vane looks between her and Mr. Scott. 

 

“Your wife,” Eleanor says, “Does that mean - is Madi alive?” 

 

After a long moment, Mr. Scott nods. “I sent her and her mother there, for their own safety. When your father controlled the island, God rest his soul, there were whispers that Spain intended to retaliate against Richard Guthrie and his growing pirate empire. I secured them passage there before the raids, in exchange for my support from my position in Nassau. As I did not tell your father then, Eleanor, I did not tell you. I did it for their own good - I hope you can understand that.” 

 

Eleanor nods once, jerkily, and she walks away from them, going over to the rail. Flint follows her with her eyes for a moment, before going back to Mr. Scott. “Reliance is a dangerous thing to build such an alliance on,” she says steadily. “If all we can offer is access to the outside world, I suspect that your wife will see it suitable to take her chances and be rid of us while she still can.” 

 

“I will talk to her,” Mr. Scott says. “Control your men, and we will have a chance at this.” 

  
  


  * ••



  
  


The island itself is lush, the fine grains of the beach transitioning into a thick forest canopy. The launches land on the shore, and as soon as her boots hit the sand, Flint can feel the hair on the back of her neck prickle - like they’re being watched.

 

Vane is beside her, and he rumbles, “What’s the chance that the moment we take a step onto their land, they don’t just shoot us where we stand?” 

 

Flint says, “Relatively high,” and she steps forward. The men behind her are more cautious, but as she walks up the beach, they begin to follow. 

 

She stops just before the tree line, as Mr. Scott meets her. “The scouts will have seen us by now,” he tells her.

 

Flint nods at him, then turns around. In the launch that’s just landed behind theirs, she can see Silver’s dark hair. But instead of looking at where Flint, Scott and Vane are waiting, her head is turned to look down the shoreline, as though she’s searching for something. 

 

“How long?” Flint asks Mr. Scott, and although she can’t hear her,  she can see Silver’s head swivel back to look right at her. 

 

“They’ll be here soon,” he says. 

  
  


  * ••



 

Silver’s never been so grateful to be off a ship in her life, although she seriously reconsiders her eagerness as her peg leg sinks into the sand, causing her to curse, grabbing onto the edge of the boat. 

 

An arm reaches out as if to steady her - one of her men - and however well-intentioned, she bats it away. “I’m fine,” she grits out, swinging her other leg to take some of the weight off of it.    
  
Traipsing up the sand is easier said than done. Finally, Silver makes it up to where the captains are gathered, but Flint and Mr. Scott are deep in conversation. 

 

Vane’s looking at her, though, considering, and partly due to the pain shooting up her leg from the uneven surface, she snaps, “If there’s something you feel the need to say, you should just say it.” 

 

“I heard you’ve made quartermaster,” he says, his eyebrow raising. “Congratulations.” 

 

“The men deemed me forgiven for my crimes in exchange for my leg,” Silver says, dry. “Haven’t you heard?”

 

“Heard it was you who made sure the fort fired,” Vane says, then almost admiringly, “You’ve come quite a way from petty thief.” 

 

As he speaks, Silver looks past him, at Flint - she can’t help it. Even though Flint’s been short with her for days, she can’t help but seek her out in any sort of crowd. Vane follows her gaze before she can hide it, though, and he snorts when he sees who she’s staring at  “Good luck.” 

 

“What?”

 

“I mean, I’ve been there,” Vane says. “That sort of woman - she draws you in. Makes you want to see if you’re really going to burn your finger if you touch the flame.” 

 

That concept is equal parts confounding and horrifying. Is he suggesting - “Did you and Flint - “

 

“Oh, I suggested it once, and she broke my nose,” Vane says. “Can’t say I didn’t deserve it.” 

 

“Huh,” Silver says, and as if against her will, her eyes drift to Flint once again. She’s stopped talking to Mr. Scott, and now she’s gazing out at the sea, to where the Walrus and the Ranger are anchored. 

 

With the trees behind her, she cuts an intimidating figure, standing in the sand with her boots and long coat. Silver thinks that she wouldn’t be entirely surprised if death didn’t apply to Flint - that long after the rest of them have crumbled away, she’ll be there like she’s made of stone, weathering any storm until it’s just her left, standing resolute and alone for eternity. 

 

She thinks about Martin McGraw, his grip on her wrist. _ “You need - need to tell her -” _

 

“Maybe you’ll have better luck,” Vane says then, watching her watch Flint, and Silver frowns at him.

 

“We’re not like that,” she says, and the acknowledgment of - well, whatever’s between her and Flint, the words fall out of her mouth easier than she would’ve thought. “I’d suggest that you not bring it up.” 

 

“Why, are you afraid of what she’ll do to me if she were to overhear, or are you threatening me?”

 

Silver says, “Are the two exclusive?” 

 

Vane raises his hands, and it’s only slightly mocking. But before Silver can leave him, there’s a low whistle, and she can see Flint’s head snap over to the treeline. 

 

One, then three, then a dozen men emerge from the forest. They’re covered in strange clothes, their faces smeared with a white, powdery substance, standing stark against dark skin. As they all still, more and more come out, until they’re surrounded by these men. Some of them carry rifles, other bows. 

 

Mr. Scott says something in an unfamiliar language, and the men look among themselves. He repeats whatever he says, and then one of the men - only it’s a woman, Silver realizes, wearing thick earrings that touch the tops of her muscled shoulders - steps forward. They exchange a few words, Mr. Scott’s voice placating, hers tense. It doesn’t escape her that the woman is holding a formidable-looking spear, either. 

 

She says something to Mr. Scott, gesturing at them, and the man turns to Flint. “She says that if we are to proceed to the camp, we must divest of our weapons - knives and guns,” he says. “Those are their terms.” 

 

“No,” Vane says, and Silver sees several of the men tense at his curt tone. “Tell your wife that she can meet us here.” 

 

“Vane, shut up,” Flint says. She turns back to Mr. Scott. “Will they take us to her for a meeting?” 

 

He hesitates, and Silver’s fingers find the knife that are strapped to her hip on instinct. “They did not clarify.”

 

After a moment, Flint’s hands go to the pistol at her waist, and Silver doesn’t dare move, especially when the gesture makes the the woman hoist up her spear. But before Flint can get impaled, she takes the pistol out, holding it by its handle, and she drops it onto the sand.

 

“Tell her that we want a meeting with the queen,” Flint says, her eyes on the woman. Mr. Scott translates after a moment. The woman turns, and she says something to the others around her.

 

Flint looks at Mr. Scott, who lifts his shoulders ever so slightly. “That is a tongue I do not recognize,” he says. “Perhaps - “

 

The woman turns back to them, and she says something. Mr. Scott lets out an exhale, and he nods at Flint. 

 

“Drop all of your weapons,” Flint orders, finally looking back at them, as she discards her jacket as well, leaving it on the ground. “I don’t want to see a single blade on any of you, do you understand?”

  
  


  * ••



  
  


Once the Maroons collect their weapons, they silently flank their smaller numbers easily. Flint counts their numbers to be about thirty, as they’re led into the thicker part of the forest. 

 

Despite the low-hanging branches and the treacherous navigation, the Maroons navigate the terrain much more easily than any of the pirates. Flint hears cursing behind her, as someone stumbles, only to be barked at by one of the people. 

 

From the corner of her vision, she can see Silver, sweat dripping down her forehead as she’s forced to stop for a moment to untangle her peg leg from vines that have wrapped their way around the matter. One of the men escorting them stops as well, and he says something to her.    
  


“Just - I need a moment - “ Silver grits out, and Flint sees the man approach aggressively. 

 

She’s turning around before she can think better of it, putting herself in between Silver and the man. “She needs a moment,” Flint tells the man, looking at him right in the eye. She doesn’t budge, even as the man looms in front of her. 

 

The woman from before - and Flint thinks that she must be some sort of leader - says something, then, and the man backs off. She turns back to Silver, then, who’s fighting to get the last bit of plant matter off her leg. 

 

“Need a hand?” Flint asks, quietly, and Silver looks up, her jaw clenched. 

 

“I’m fine,” she bites out, only the next step she takes has her peg leg striking a tree root that’s grown into the path. Flint sees a vein in her neck bulge, as she muffles what’s no doubt a cry of pain.

 

“Here,” Flint says, then roughly adds, “It’s not out of pity, we need to keep on moving,” as she pulls Silver’s arm over her neck. Silver resists for a moment, but with the additional stability, she’s able to maneuver much better. Her fingers dig into Flint’s shoulder with each step, but like this, there’s less weight put on her peg leg, and together they walk. 

 

They limp like that for the better part of a mile, the Maroons guiding them until they reach the edge of a lake. 

 

The water is glassy, large stretches of it uninterrupted by any sort of ripple. One of the men by them lifts a sort of horn to his lips, and the sound that it makes when he blows into it is low, not unlike the rumble of thunder from a faraway storm.

 

Then there’s an answering sound, coming from the other side of the lake. They’re brought to the edge of the water, where there are several long boats waiting for them. From near the water, Flint can see that there are buildings peeking over the treeline on the other side of the lake, built of a peculiar combination of planks and hollow-looking wood tied together. 

 

Flint and Silver are put in one of them, a man to either end to row them across. Their entire group fits into a handful of the boats, and as Flint glances around, the rest of the group wades into the water to swim across, or they start going around the lake. 

 

On the other side, there are huts with thatched rooftops near the water. As the boats make their landing on the other side, people start emerging from their huts. There are men, women, children - many of them with varying shades of darker skin, but a few with paler complexions - peering out at them, gathered to see the intruders on their island. 

 

They’re jostled past the huts, into what resembles a village. There, they can see the buildings that towered above the trees, joined by walkways that look like rope bridges hanging between the buildings. For a world so cut off from civilization, it’s elaborate, and as more and more people start coming out to watch them parade by, Flint thinks that for a place supposedly reliant on Mr. Scott’s connection to Nassau, they seem to have built nothing short of a paradise in this place. 

 

They’re made to line up, their entire group, with armed guards on either side. Mr. Scott is to her right, Vane just past him, and Silver is on her left. As they stand there, Silver removes her arm from the back of Flint’s neck, but Flint can feel their elbows brushing against each other through the thin material of her shirt. 

The crowds who have come out to watch them part and Flint watches as a woman with a cloth wrapped around her head comes through, her eyes going to each of them individually. When her eyes land on Mr. Scott, her face softens, and she holds out her arms, stopping right in front of him.

 

As though he’s been given permission, Mr. Scott steps forward, and they embrace. He whispers something into her ear, and Flint sees her grip on the back of his shirt tighten for a moment, until they separate.    
  
The Maroon Queen then turns to look at her. “You are the female captain they speak of,” she says, her voice accented. “Captain Flint.”

 

“I am,” Flint says, and she squares her shoulders under the Maroon Queen’s gaze. “We have come here seeking refuge.”

 

“Refuge?” 

 

“Three weeks ago, the Spanish arrived on the shores of Nassau once again,” Mr. Scott tells the queen. “They’ve burned it to the ground. We were able to escape with two ships.” 

 

“You could’ve gone anywhere,” the queen says, with another lingering look at her husband. “Why have you come here?”

 

“We’re here because we want revenge,” Vane says from down the line, and Flint briefly closes her eyes. “They’ve taken our home from us, and we’re going to take it back.” 

 

“And who is this?” the Maroon Queen asks, her eyes narrowing. 

 

“Charles Vane,” he answers. “Captain of the Ranger.” 

 

“Captain Vane, your revenge does not interest me,” she says coolly. “As for you, Captain Flint, what do you seek by coming to my island?”

 

“We have come here for refuge, that much is true,” Flint says, and she can feel Silver shift at her side. “We have also come here with a proposition, one that would benefit both of our futures.”

 

“Bosede, these people are not our enemy,” Mr. Scott says, glancing up at Flint. “The Spanish burned Nassau to the ground for little more than a grudge. If we had not come here - “

 

“You should have never come here,” the Maroon Queen says, and she turns to him. “You are my husband, and my heart is full that you are here again. But you should not have brought these people - “

 

Mr. Scott says something to her in the same language, to which she replies in clipped tones. She gives another long look at Flint, then says something to her people.

 

The guards step forward, and Flint sends a sharp look at Mr. Scott. The man says, “She is unconvinced that your men do not present a threat against your people - she wishes to keep you under guard in the meantime.”

 

“Tell her that she does not need to be concerned,” Silver says from beside her. “Tell her that as long as she extends hospitality to us, the men will stay in line.”

 

The queen’s eyes move right to Silver, then looking back at Flint. “Who is this?”

 

Flint wets her lips. Silver replies, “I am quartermaster under Captain Flint.”

 

“A woman as quartermaster under a female captain?” the queen questions. “You speak for your men?” 

 

“I do,” Silver says. “Believe me, we wish you no harm - “

 

“I don’t care much for your wishes,” the queen says curtly, and she glances at all of them again. “You will be under guard, but you will not be restrained. I would tell your men that if they try to escape, or harm a single member of the camp, the consequences will be severe.”

 

She’s not sure they have any other option, but Flint says, “We understand.” 

  
  


  * ••



  
  


One of the men brings them food and water, and Silver sits down heavily next to Flint as they gulp down the water in cups carved finely out of some kind of soft wood. She can see Mr. Scott continues to talk to the queen, and then she sees his shoulders drop - in surprise - as another woman approaches them. 

 

This one is younger, her hair in ornate braids looped at the base of her neck. She throws her arms around Mr. Scott’s neck, and the Maroon Queen puts a hand on her back as she embraces him. 

 

Silver, from beside her, speaks up. “Is that the daughter that Eleanor brought up?” 

 

“It would appear so.” Flint watches the reunion, and when the daughter removes her arms from Mr. Scott’s neck, her gaze falls on them for a moment. She continues, “Eleanor spoke of her once to me. They had grown up together on the island, before she had thought her dead from the Rosario raids.” 

 

“I can’t imagine it,” Silver muses, still looking over at them. “Thinking someone so close to you dead for all those years.”

 

Unbidden, her mind flashes to Martin, the look that Eleanor had given her when she had confirmed her worst fears - 

 

She chases them away as soon as the quartermaster begins to speak again. “Now that we have a moment,” Silver says, her voice too soft for comfort, “I know that you are still pained over the death of Mr. McGraw, and if you wanted - “

 

“Silver.” 

 

“I know that you were - close,” Silver starts, uncharacteristically stumbling over her words. “If you wanted to speak of it - I would be there.”

 

Flint stays silent, long enough so that Silver eventually exhales, the breath ruffling her side. She doesn’t say anything else, though, as she tilts her head back, feeling the sun on her face.

 

She’s not hungry, even as Silver makes low sounds as she tears into the fruit that they’ve been given. Flint watches Mr. Scott led away by his wife and daughter, and as the afternoon sun rises high above them, she feels drained, like the earth below her is seeping away at her energy until nothing is left. 

 

  * ••



 

They’re given some leeway in the camp, though Silver is highly aware of the guards keeping an eye on their every move. 

 

They’re taken to a creek, where downriver there are some women washing brightly colored cloths in the water, rubbing them over the stones. At the presence of pirates, some of them disappear back into the forests, but others stay, their curious eyes on them even from the distance.

 

Flint plunged her hands into the water, running a hand over her shorn hair in brisk movements. Then she had moved away from the riverbank, instead going to the nearby trees to sit down. 

 

If she doesn’t want to speak, then Silver isn’t going to chase after her. She dips her hands into the cool water, cupping her hands to bring it up to her face. She washes grime and sweat off of her face, blinking as droplets stick on her eyelashes. 

 

The men wash themselves similarly, some of them going up the river a little - still within range of the guards - to drink. Silver waits until there are few around her - the guard in her periphery - as she sits on the edge of the creek bed, and she slips off her prosthetic leg.

 

The relief from the pressure is enough to bring tears to her eyes, and she wipes a hand over her eyes, setting the peg leg down on the ground beside her. She then carefully lowers her stump into the water, biting down on her lip as the water makes her nerves light up - and she breathes in and out of her nose rapidly, waiting for the pain to proceed. 

 

“Are you alright?” the voice comes from her right, and Silver jerks, her stump emerging from the water. 

 

It’s Mr. Scott’s daughter, her dark eyes on Silver as she steps out to the creek. Silver glances back at the guards - and there’s another one of them, both of them staring at Silver like they’re daring her to do something that would give them an excuse to put her down. 

 

“Princess,” she settles on, “You startled me.” 

 

“My name is Madi,” the woman says. “I thought you in distress. I apologize.”

 

Silver nods once, and when it looks like the woman isn’t leaving, she puts her stump back into the water. It hurts less the second time, and she ventures, “You are Mr. Scott’s daughter?”

 

“I am my mother’s daughter,” Madi corrects, “But Mr. Scott is my father, yes. You are the quartermaster for Flint’s crew, are you not?”

 

She nods. “Silver.”

 

“Silver,” Madi repeats, and she finds that she likes the way the last syllable seems to be rounded from her tongue. “Tell me, how does a woman become the quartermaster of a pirate crew?”

 

“The same way a woman becomes a pirate captain, I suppose,” Silver says, and she watches the water pass over her leg. 

 

“You aim to be captain?”

 

She glances up sharply. “That’s not what I said.” 

 

“It’s not about what you said,” Madi says, “It’s about what you implied.”

 

Something about her steady gaze - or maybe it’s the relief that the icy water has on the swollen stitches on her stump - makes Silver want to confess to something, anything. She settles on, “I wasn’t made for this life.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“I haven’t been a pirate for very long,” Silver says, and she gives a little huff. In the water’s reflection, she sees the vague shape of her reflection. She supposes that without the detail, she does look like a pirate now - her hair, wild around her face, the collar of her shirt gaping to reveal bruises and scrapes that are still healing. “My tenure as quartermaster has been short, though not uneventful.”

 

Madi is silent for a short while, enough so that without looking up, Silver thinks that she might have disappeared. But then she says, “I have been raised my whole life to succeed my mother. One day, I will become queen of this place in her stead.”

 

“The crown is a heavy burden,” Silver says, and there’s another lengthy pause. 

 

When she glances up, Madi’s eyes are on her, and she feels as though her skin has tightened around her, under that gaze. 

 

“I think that the burden can be relieved if one wants the crown in the first place,” Madi says, and her eyes bore through Silver. “It’s only heavy if you try to cast it aside.” 

  
  


  * ••



 

Night falls, and Silver finds Flint back in the makeshift quarters. There are guards at the entrance to the covered space - some sort of common space, where they have been allowed to sleep while Mr. Scott talks with the queen. The night air is chilly, and for a wistful moment, Flint wishes that she had her jacket with her still, to have something between her and the damp earthen ground.

 

Flint had been trying to fall asleep when she hears the clunk of a peg leg near her head. She doesn’t say anything, but she hears Silver settle down on the ground next to her with a thump. She opens her eyes when Silver whispers, “I spoke to the princess.”

 

It’s dark, but she doesn’t dare turn her head, not when Silver is so close. “The princess?”

 

“I thought that perhaps there might be a way to exploit the relationship there,” the quartermaster says. “She is set to inherit the title from her mother, after all, and what if her sympathies ran more along ours?”

 

Flint stays silent, as Silver continues, “But then I spoke with her, and I realized that we might have a valuable ally to gain instead. She has been on this island for most of her life, and what little she knows about the outside world, she’s gleaned from books and secondhand accounts. She might be a willing partner if we are to pursue an avenue of having these people our allies for what comes next.”

 

_ For what comes next _ . Flint has spent so many of her years angry, vengeful, vicious - she’s forgotten what’s it’s like, to come down from the high of such emotions, to feel so empty inside that the lack of rage eats away at whatever is left. 

 

She stares up at the timber that criss-crosses its way down the line of the roof in the dim light. “She’s young.”

 

Silver huffs, and Flint can feel the warm air on her neck. “Madi can’t be much younger than me.” 

 

It occurs to Flint that she knows very little about Silver, all considering - her age just being another thing that is a mystery. So she dares turn a little closer to Silver, and she can just barely make out the curve that makes the side of her face, illuminated by the torch that one of the guards has by his feet. “Having her on our side would be a possible solution, yes.” 

 

Silver says, “She might be young, but she’s intelligent, driven, despite her lack of experience. If I can convince her, then she might be able to talk to her mother - “ 

 

She stops suddenly, then, as though she’s just worked through Flint’s words. “What do you mean, a possible solution? Do you see another way through this?” 

 

Flint stays silent, but it seems that Silver has learned how to read into her silences etween her words just as well. “You mean to convince the Maroon Queen in some other way - threaten her into compliance?” Silver guesses, and her words hit their mark, even though there’s no way Silver can see whatever flits across Flint’s expression in the dark. 

 

“Mr. Scott has arranged for me to meet with her tomorrow,” Flint says finally. “If it goes poorly - I will convince her to release the crew.” She opens her hand, then, and the movement makes Silver glance down. In between them, she knows Silver can see the glint of metal that’s in her hand, the tiny blade she had stashed in her boot back before they even were on the beach. 

 

“Even if you could get to her without being killed in the process, even if you could get the knife to her throat and convince them to let us go, you would never get out of this alive,” Silver bites out, and Flint can see her eyes dart back up to Flint’s face. 

 

When Flint doesn’t say anything, Silver makes some noise, low in her throat, and then she rolls over, away from Flint. In agreement or disgust, Flint doesn’t know. 

 

She closes her eyes, and waits for sleep to take her. 

 

  * ••



 

She’s sitting just outside of the cottage, this time, her legs splayed among the grasses. There is glass, shattered by her boots, but the longer she sits there, the less she cares. 

 

There are footsteps, the crunch of glass as they come near her, and then Martin sits next to her. He’s close to her, but she doesn’t feel him - can’t smell him, and she knows she can’t touch him, like this.

 

She’s never felt so far away from him. She would wonder why she keeps on dreaming of this place, only it was always here, wasn’t it?

 

It was in this very cottage that they had received news of Tommy’s death, in a letter postmarked two months ago, from London. 

 

It was in this cottage that Martin had fallen to his knees, still clutching the paper, and the bottle had slipped from Flint’s hands, shattering all over the ground - and she had stood there, motionless, as Martin had run his fingers over the writing, again and again, smudging the ink even though it had been  _ months _ , as though if he could just erase the evidence, that she would still be alive - 

 

It was in this cottage that Jane McGraw - James McGraw - had died for good, as she had watched the flames consume the letter.

 

It was in this cottage that Captain Flint was born. 

 

“I miss you,” Flint confesses, watching the grass wave by her boots. “When we received that letter - I wept, I raged. But you - I’m ruined over you.” 

 

“You’re not ruined,” Martin tells her, and for a moment, she can nearly imagine that she can feel him by her side. “You’re alive. You have so much left to do.”

 

“I don’t want to be,” she says, and she turns to meet his eyes. “I want to be with you. I don’t want to be alone.” 

 

“You’re not,” Martin says, and his mouth tilts. “You’re not alone.” 

  
  


  * ••



  
  


She wakes up in the middle of the night to Silver shaking her roughly. Blinking, Flint half-expects to wake to another battle, but instead, she just see Silver’s eyes, only a few inches away from her own. Though what’s warring across her face might not involve any bullets, she looks like she’s debating on what to say, as Flint waits. 

 

“Back in Nassau, before all of this, I spoke to Billy,” Silver says, sounding like she had been considering these words for quite some time. “Back then, even before the fort, the Urca, he didn’t give a shit if you lived or died. I suppose you knew that then. And until most recently, I too would have been unbothered by the idea of trading your life for the rest of the crew's. And yet, for some reason, now I am bothered by it.”

 

“But I understand it. I understand the allure of ensuring that no one will ever think you the villain you fear you are. What a waste, it seems to me, knowing it doesn't have to be this way, knowing the woman who talked me into giving a shit about this crew - “

 

She stops, as if to allow Flint to processes her words. “She could talk those people out there into anything, if she wanted to.”

  
  


  * ••



  
  


Mr. Scott comes to fetch her at dawn. The morning light is greyish, casting everything in a strange tone, and Flint glances over at Silver’s slumbering form - her face tucked into the crook of her arm - before she follows the man. Near one of the entrances, Vane is sitting up, awake, and he makes eye contact with Flint before she’s guided to one of the buildings towards the center of the village. 

 

The queen is sitting in a chair, surrounded by countless guards as she waits for Flint to walk up to her. Flint eyes them, as she says, right to the point, “My husband was unable to convince me to help you. What can you say that could change my mind?” 

 

“I have great respect for your husband, and I know what he wants me to say that you have no choice but to use us, that I am your only means of survival,” Flint starts, weighing her words. “But if you know there is always a choice to be made, and you don't trust me at all, and you can have us all dead before the sun rises.”

 

There’s silence from the people behind her, and the queen hasn’t rebuked her, and so she continues. “You have hidden in this place for a lifetime, hidden from the harsh realities that lie beyond this veil that you have constructed here. But one day, you are going to have to confront these realities - chief among them being that England, Spain, they take whatever, whenever, however, it wants. Lives, loves, labor, spirits, homes.”

 

She stops, collecting her thoughts. Around her, the light from the torches flicker, but the queen’s expression doesn’t budge. At her side, her daughter is looking right at Flint, but she doesn’t let it dissuade her. “It has taken them from me,” Flint says. “I imagine that it has taken it from you. When that veil drops altogether, they will come for more.”

 

The queen speaks up, and her voice resonates in the space. “Do you suggest that you could help us prevent England from taking these things?”

 

“I am suggesting that we help each other start taking things back,” Flint tells her, and her empty hand curls into itself. “It starts with taking back Nassau from whoever tries to claim her, and it starts with us, here, today.”

 

She steels herself for the next part, as the queen sits there, waiting. 

 

Flint says, “I knew a woman once, who had a vision for the world. She saw the brightest among the men there, men who would have killed her as soon as they would have listened to her. But her end came from the hands of the men she called friends. Her end was not of the people that civilization sought to cast out - her end came at the hands of civilization itself, punishing her for daring to care.” 

 

She’s sure that the queen knows that she means every word when she says, “They killed her because they were afraid. I ask not for refuge from them, but the chance that together, we can show them who they should have been afraid of.”

  
  


  * ••



  
  


When she emerges into the daylight, the men have gathered, Silver at their head.

 

The queen says something to her daughter, who calls to the guards. They dissipate into the crowd, and Mr. Scott catches Flint’s eye - and he nods. 

 

Silver steps forward, meeting Flint in the middle. They look at each other, and Silver says, “It worked.” 

 

Flint smiles, and even though it’s small, the muscles on her face hurt from disuse. “It worked.” 

 

Silver lets out an exhale that looks like she had been holding it for a long time - perhaps ever since Flint had shown her the blade. “I didn’t think it was going to work.”

 

“I didn’t either,” Flint says, and when she looks down, Silver has the blade between her fingers. She’s fiddling with it, but under Flint’s gaze, she stops, until the blade is just barely concealed between her fingertips - no less deadly, but hidden in her hands all the same. 

 

Flint puts a hand on Silver’s shoulder, then. She’s not sure if she’s ever initiated such contact between them - and she thinks that Silver realizes it too. “Thank you,” she says, and the words seem to be heavier than her hand on Silver’s arm. “For showing me the way.” 

 

“I held onto it,” Silver says, but then her eyes go somewhere beyond Flint’s shoulder. Flint turns her head, just enough to see the queen’s daughter looking right at them - right at Silver.  _ Madi _ , Flint thinks. In the rising dawn, she’s even more beautiful, and when people pass by her, she acknowledges them with a tilt of her head that is nothing short of regal. 

 

She lets go, and she watches as Silver goes over to the princess, and she can see how Silver tucks the blade into one of her pockets before she speaks to her. 

 

She turns, and she watches as the men look among themselves, unsure of what to do. She’ll need to gather them, inform them of the proceedings, but for now - Flint just wants to rest.

 

Luckily, Mr. Scott comes by soon afterward, and he guides her to one of the empty huts that she can use as her quarters. Flint casts another lingering look at the back of Silver’s head - and she’s stuck by the tilt of Silver’s body, mirrored by the princess. 

 

She drags her eyes away, and she keeps on moving. 

  
  


  * ••



  
  


Madi waits until she’s close before she speaks. “You’re a free woman, then,” she says. “My mother has decided to join with your captain to try to wage war against the world. She has decided to embark on this.” 

 

“Do you agree with her?” 

 

“I am hesitant,” Madi says, after a moment. “What your captain has promised - both my mother and I can agree that such victory will come with a cost. Because we have agreed to entertain chasing that victory does not mean that we will agree to pay the cost.” 

 

Silver can’t help but let out a small laugh at that, and Madi frowns. “What amuses you?”

 

“I don’t think you’ve ever been hesitant a day in your life,” Silver says, and she looks at her right in the eye. “I think you make up your mind, and you stay to your convictions.”

 

“You think you know me?” Madi says, and although her face remains straight, there’s something in her eye. Silver’s not sure she’s ever felt like his before - this pull, as she takes a step closer, watches as Madi continues to watch her. 

 

“I think I’d want to know,” Silver says, and she sees how up close, Madi’s eyes flick down to her mouth and back up again. “I think that together, anything is possible.” 

 

“You speak very highly of the unknown.” Madi’s voice has a teasing lilt to it, and Silver smiles a little, looking down before meeting her eyes again. 

 

“In my experience, what is unknown quickly becomes apparent if one is willing to invest in its discovery,” she says, and she shifts a little closer. 

 

Madi doesn’t move, and she thinks that for all that this day has brought, this is something unexpected - and not unwelcome. “Your leg,” she says, which makes Silver pulls back ever so slightly, “Does the fresh water help?” 

 

Silver blinks. “It does.” 

 

Madi glance at her guard, who pointedly turns his head. “We shall go to the creek once again, and you will tell me what you know about Nassau.” 

  
  


  * ••



  
  


Flint collapses on the small bed that’s in the corner of the hut. Her bones ache where they’re pressed against the soft surface of the stuffed mattress, too used to the hammock, and then the hard ground. 

 

That night, she doesn’t dream. When she opens her eyes, it’s nearly dusk, given the lack of light coming in from the doorway, through the gaps in the makeshift curtain over the door.

 

She wonders where Silver is, for a split second, and the fact that that’s where her mind wanders to first is enough to make her quickly pull herself from a dozing state to full alertness. 

 

When she exits the hut, she’s able to find her way back to the village center fairly easily. She meets Vane, then, who seems to be in the middle of - out of everything - comparing blades with one of the Maroon men.

 

She nods to the man, who gives Vane his sword back before leaving them. Vane waits until the man’s gone before he looks at her, eyebrow raised. “What is it?” 

 

“We need to discuss what comes next,” she says, and the weight of what they’re about to do soon falls back to its place around her shoulders. “If we are to consider taking back Nassau - “

 

“We won’t be taking back Nassau just because the smoke has cleared,” Vane says. “If we are to attempt to take her back, they have to know that we’re coming for them.” 

 

‘What are you suggesting?” 

 

“I’d say we compile a list of the places that have hung pirates in the past year,” Vane says bluntly. “We pay them all a visit, keep our men happy with whatever we can plunder in the meantime.” 

 

“You’d go back on the account, in a way, just to keep your men  _ happy  _ \- “

 

“I’d start by raiding places that thought that they would be free of us, yes,” Vane says. “You were the one to tell that queen that we need to make them afraid of us. What better way than to burn their civilized towns right in front of them?” 

 

Flint won’t lie to herself, she’s impressed that Vane has given this so much forethought. “You should return to the Ranger,” she says. “Tell Eleanor, Max what has happened.” 

 

At the woman’s name, Vane tenses ever so slightly. Flint catches onto it, and no matter how reluctant she is to get involved in the clusterfuck that is their relationship, she says, “Can you do that?”

 

“Of course I can fucking do that,” Vane snaps, and he leaves without another look in her direction - that, she is more used to.

 

If only a few weeks ago, she knew that she would be planning with  _ Charles Vane  _ to wage a war on the world. 

  
  


  * ••



  
  


She doesn’t see Silver among the men, which makes her pause before she continues her search. She doesn’t want to look like she’s doing exactly what she’s doing, so instead of inquiring as to exactly where she is, she drifts around the camp.

 

She gathers that the queen has departed to her own quarters, presumably to regain lost time with her husband. Most of the men have integrated with the Maroons, and for all the previous animosity, some of them even seem to be like Vane, comparing weapons or trading stories as they sit by the fire and eat. 

 

She doesn’t want to wander too far from the camp, not keen on getting lost in the wilderness, so she follows the river that leads out of camp. During the evening, the forest is more difficult to navigate - not that it was easy in the first place, to her untrained eye- but as she walks more into the thicket, she hears the chatter of bugs, the rustling of small animals the farther away she gets from camp. 

 

Flint follows the river aimlessly for quite some time, enough so that she begins to get concerned that she will have trouble getting back. She prepares to turn back, and that’s when she hears them.

 

There’s a little inlet, where the creek bends in, creating a small pool. She had passed by a couple, and she thinks nothing of it, until she hears a breathless laugh, then a murmur - cut off by a low groan. 

 

Through the trees, she sees two figures near the edge of the bank. Even though the setting sun barely cuts through the trees, it creates just enough light so that she can see the glimmer of the water moving around them, the shine of wet skin on skin - the lovers in the water, their moans drifting to Flint’s reddening ears. She prepares to turn back, only one of the figures tilts their head back, and she recognizes one of them,  it stops her movement to turn away, to give them their privacy. 

 

Silver’s hair ripples out on the moss and leaves on the bank, cascading out as her hands spread out on the dirt to either side of her, the muscles of her back shifting under her skin as she pushes out. Flint sees dark hands grasp on either side of Silver’s arms, pushing her more against the bank - and then she recognizes the princess - Madi - and she’s making Silver make  _ those sounds _ \- 

 

Even though she’s still too far away to see anything in detail, the image of the two of them suggests far more, and she’s nearly caught by the wave of images that her imagination provides. As she sees Madi’s head move from where she was in front of Silver, kissing down her neck, Flint imagines how Madi must be dragging her tongue down the sharp cords of Silver’s neck, to the bruise that had been peeking through the loose collar of her shirt. Does Silver’s skin give under her touch, or have the recent weeks made her arms lean, so that her fingertips meet their match among the paler skin of her arms, resisting being molded - 

 

One of them says something, and as Flint is paralyzed among the trees, Silver moves. She lifts herself out of the water, coming to sit on the bank, now above Madi who’s still in the water. Flint is suddenly, irrationally angry that the sun had dared set on this moment, so that she can barely make anything beyond the shape of Silver’s torso, the slight curve of her hip as it transitions into her waist, the flex of her back as she throws her head back - in pleasure, laughter, both? 

 

Madi’s hands shift to her waist, her fingertips digging into Silver’s sides, and Flint can’t take her eyes away as one of Silver’s hands move to Madi’s head, urging her on. While she can’t see what Madi is doing, her mind makes her picture it, almost like she’s there beside Silver - she can see Madi licking down below her naval, and as one of Madi’s hands disappears, she can see Madi teasing her entrance with one finger, two, rubbing but not quite giving her enough, as Silver tosses her head back again with another low moan - 

 

Then she’s seeing herself there in the water, below Silver. Flint pictures running her mouth down Silver’s bare hip, watching as Madi licks up into her, and one of Silver’s hands is on Madi’s head, but the other hand is against Flint’s. Silver’s fingers tangle in hers, and Flint squeezes her hand, watching as Silver’s mouth parts open at the sensation, the heat of Madi’s mouth against the chill of the water lapping away at her leg. Silver probably laughs, then, says,  _ What are you waiting for, captain? _

 

Then Flint is raising her mouth, moving out of the water and dragging her teeth down one of Silver’s breasts. She keeps the touch teasing, even as Silver gasps out her name, her fingers squeezing Flint’s, and as she sucks a dark mark just below her breast, she can hear Silver chanting her name, her back arching towards them - 

 

She realizes what she’s doing, and the shame that floods her system - she’s intruding on this private moment not meant for her eyes, let alone her thoughts. Flint’s careful as to not even break a leaf in her retreat, the one thing she focuses on as she gets as far away as she can before letting herself exhale, ragged. How did she stumble upon them -  _ why did she stay _ \- 

 

She makes it back to the village, her heart thudding in her ears. Only when she’s separated from them, does she register the other feeling that’s curling in the base of her ribs - something darker, pointed, spiked. 

 

Flint wants to laugh at herself, only her breath’s been lost somewhere out there among the trees. She has no reason to be jealous - it’s none of her business, and as she finds her way back to the hut, she repeats to herself,  _ I am not jealous _ . 

 

It doesn’t explain why she lies awake, forcing herself not to think about the curve of Silver’s mouth as she looks down at her, saying,  _ What are you waiting for, captain? _

 

For reasons far different than the past few times, she doesn’t sleep much.  

 


	4. a piece of paper

******BATH, NORTH CAROLINA, 1716**

 

She hears the whistle of the bullet over her head and drops to the ground on instinct. The shot goes over her, and Flint takes the split second afterwards to jump back up, tackling the man at the other end of the gun down to the ground.

 

The butt of the rifle gets jammed in her gut, but she quickly dispatches the man, picking up his rifle while spitting out blood. Across the road, she can see Silver, who’s got a pistol in one hand, her crutch on the other, and she shoots the man who had been coming to attack Flint next. 

 

He crumples to the ground, and Flint glances across the road, meeting Silver’s eyes. Silver lifts her chin in recognition, before she continues limbing down the cobblestone path. Somehow, Silver always knows who she is, as Flint adjusts the fabric that’s wrapped around her head and neck. 

 

The turbans had been Silver’s idea - that by giving them the illusion of concealment, any pirate attack could be attributed to them. It makes their numbers unknown, adding to the tales of bloodlust and terror. 

 

Silver’s the only one of them who doesn’t wear a turban when they go on these raids. She had cited that _ the leg gives her identity away, anyways,  _ and if she’s to be honest with herself, Flint’s secretly grateful for that fact so that when one of them gets shot, she always knows it’s not Silver lying on the ground in an instant. 

 

Someone from behind her brushes by, his sword bloodied. “The magistrate’s house is the one up there,” he says, and Flint recognizes Vane’s gravelly voice despite the cloth over his face, jerking his head towards an elaborate colonial building.  

 

“You deal with him,” she says. “I’ll oversee the rest.” 

 

As Vane leads the charge, Flint uses her elbow to smash in a pane of glass of the butchery, before another one of her men throws a torch in. The place quickly goes up in flames, and she can feel the heat of the fire through the cloth on her back as she walks away. 

 

Down the street a little ways, she sees movement, a woman running out of one of the burning houses. One of her men corners her, lifting his gun, but before he can shoot, she strides forward, grabbing his arm. “No,” she orders, and he lowers the gun, “Let her go.” 

 

The men obeys, and for a moment, Flint can see how the woman sees her, her eyes widening before she continues running away. Another faceless villain, the night and the color of her clothing too dark to tell if she’s covered in blood - 

 

“You’re too soft,” Silver says, who she’s managed to catch up with. She has a sluggish but shallow cut on her forehead, a dead man at her boot. “She could be getting the militia.” 

 

“The militia undoubtedly know we’re here,” Flint says, and her lip curls underneath the fabric. “We don’t kill women or children.”

 

“Because women are harmless, of course.” 

 

“Because we need a few survivors to tell the tale,” Flint says, and in front of them, the fire rushes out, enough so that they both stumble back a little. The flames lick the wooden timbers as the roof starts to cave in, the smoke disappearing into the night sky, and they watch as the rest of Bath is consumed by their fire. 

  
  


  * ••



 

They have fair winds on their way back. Flint spends most of the voyage going over her maps, Silver flitting in and out between managing the men out on the deck and peering over Flint’s shoulder as if she could understand the nautical charts. 

 

“Why wouldn’t you cross over here?” she asks once, and Flint looks at her out of the corner of her eye.

 

“Because not only is that a major shipping lane, one that is heavily patrolled by British ships, but the island cutting out means that the winds are cut in half before we even commit that path,” 

Flint tells her, then she squints a little. “Have you seriously learned nothing?”

  
Silver raises her hands in defense, and she said something along the lines of  _ I’m not the naval strategist among us, captain _ . But the gesture makes her sleeves slip lower,  and Flint looks back at the papers in front of her rather than snark back. 

 

In the past few months, the quartermaster has accumulated a few tattoos - Flint doesn’t let herself  _ look, _ per say, but by now she’s noticed a coiled snake around her wrist, the skull on the underside of her forearm, both of which visible when Silver is pointing on the deck and Flint looks at her even though it’s like staring right at the sun. 

 

Once, before she crawled into the hammock on the other side of the cabin, Silver had changed her shirt, tugging the dirty one over her head while Flint was in the room. Flint had heard the soft thump of fabric on the ground, and she had looked up on instinct from her desk. Now she knows that Silver had a tattoo of a nautical star in the middle of her back, just above the cut of her hips, and absolutely does not know what to do with that information.

 

Tattoos aside, by the time they make it back, Flint has reaffirmed to her about the importance of avoiding major shipping lines when you’re a pirate who’s been responsible for the sacking of over a dozen ports - or more, depending on who you ask - several times. Silver rolls her eyes, but at the very least humors her with such lessons. 

 

They’re both on one of the first launches back to shore. Flint stays back to make sure the men understand that they are to unload the new haul of timber from the Walrus before they are to head back to the village for any sort of downtime, as  Silver traipses up the beach. 

 

When she looks up, though, she sees that Silver’s heading towards Madi, who’s waiting near the dock they’ve recently put in. She watches as Madi’s lips curve up into a smile, and she can nearly picture Silver’s answering grin as Silver loops her arm around Madi’s waist in an easy gesture, their embrace intimate even though they’re far from being alone, before they depart from the beach back to the camp, Silver’s crutch leaving distinctive tracks in the sand along with their footprints. 

 

Flint looks down, concentrates on the rope in her hands as she ties the launch, checks the men’s work. The Maroons here take a less unfavorable light towards such relationships, she knows, and for the pirates, well, Silver already stands out among them, and so this, if anything, is something that they can understand. Silver’s become a respected quartermaster beside her, and Madi is the heir to her mother’s people - from a solely pragmatic view, their union - even if it could never be codified by law - shows a closer alliance between pirate and Maroon. 

 

Ever since they had fled Nassau, Silver has changed. Not that the rest of them are immune to the toll that preparing to take on civilization has cost, but she in particular has become someone far from the whore who had stolen a piece of paper on a whim. She’s less brash, less cocky, someone who doesn’t have to raise her voice to be heard. She’s killed more men, been shot at, and if anything, has gotten more clever at parsing Flint’s plans before she presents them to Vane and the Maroon queen, her suggestions helping more often than not. 

 

The princess had joined them on a few raids in the past. The Maroon queen had not favored the idea, but Madi had insisted that if she was to prepare to take over the crown one day, she had to show that she was willing to fight alongside the men she ordered. 

 

That, and there was a certain quartermaster who was  _ very _ good with a rifle watching her back. 

 

Flint and Madi - well, she knows that Madi distrusts her. It doesn’t injure her feelings - the princess is far from the first person who doesn’t trust her, and she’s never been one to smooth things over with anyone - but she thinks that her own feelings might be driving a wedge between them - whether or not Madi knows about them. 

 

She has feelings regarding Silver that go beyond camaraderie. The truth is simple, the situation complicated - and those feelings are ones that she will never act upon, but they exist nonetheless.

 

Madi makes Silver happy, and so Flint pushes any misguided feeling deep inside her where it will not emerge. 

 

“Captain,” Dooley says from beside her, “The timber’s been loaded.” He waits as she puts down the knot she had been fiddling with. “Shall we bring them to the camp?” 

 

“Store half on the beach,” Flint says. It’ll be going back on the Ranger for repairs, anyways. “I’ll be in the village if any problems arise.” 

  
  


  * ••



 

Silver closes her eyes, and feels Madi’s fingers trace along her jaw, her thumb brushing her lower lip. “This is new,” she says, and her fingers are light against the cut on her temple - now healed, but will likely leave a small scar. “An accident?” 

 

“Got my crutch stuck on a stone,” she says, and Madi’s fingers pause. They’re lying in her bed, Silver having collapsing over her, her head cradled in her lap. “He hit me with the end of his rifle.” 

 

“You were on the vanguard?” 

  
“I had to be, Dobbs had taken ill,” Silver says. “We needed someone to hang back while Vane killed the magistrate.” 

  
“There are many other men on your crew who could have taken that position.” Madi’s voice is sharp, and Silver opens her eyes. 

 

She sees the downturned turned corner of Madi’s mouth, although it looks like it could be a smile from this angle. “Flint didn’t like it either, when I suggested that I replace him.”

 

“Why take the risk, then?” Madi removes her hand from her face, then, and Silver misses the contact instantly, as the mood grows tense. “You cannot be as easily replaced.”

 

“Because I am still a part of that crew, and I could do it.” 

 

“You should know that you do not need to prove yourself, especially not to them.”

 

“I wasn’t proving myself to them.”

 

“Proving yourself to the captain, then?” Madi’s voice takes on an unfamiliar quality, and now Silver pushes herself up, to get a better look at her face. Her eyes are downcast, but they look at Silver when she stays upright. “Well?” 

 

She frowns. “Proving myself - to Flint?” 

 

“You have told me that your relationship is complicated,” she says, determined. “I have respected that, given your history. But if you think that you need to put yourself in harm’s way to get her to listen to you - “

 

“Now  _ hang on  _ \- “

 

“ - I love you,” Madi says, and it takes the breath out of her lungs for a moment, even though it’s far from the first time that she’s said it. “But I refuse to stand by as you risk your life to get her attention.” 

 

“I’m not trying to get Flint’s attention,” Silver retorts. She softens her tone, though, not wanting to ruin the moment any more. “I’ll send someone else - if there is a next time, alright?” 

 

She wonders if Madi will call her out on either part. But instead, Madi nods. There’s still that line in her brow, even as Silver leans forward to kiss it, then kiss down her nose, to her top lip. “We have to be out there planning a decisive battle very soon,” Madi says, exhaling against Silver’s mouth. 

 

“Then let us take the time now to just forget about anything outside of this bed,” Silver says, and Madi tilts her head down to kiss her once again, until they’re falling back among the blankets.  

  
  


  * ••



  
  


The next day, Silver goes to Max.

 

In the first few weeks, when they had been testing the new alliance, they had received word that Nassau had been brought back to civilization. With the threat of the pirates far removed from the town - last they had heard, Hornigold and the others had been forced to flee to the interior - the British had taken their chance. While the Spanish had burned Nassau to the ground, the British had been waiting like a dog at a dinner table, pouncing on the scraps, and they had hung their flag in the fort. 

 

Ever since they had arrived to the island, the pirates had fallen into roles that they could best serve the Maroon camp, and the Maroons had filled their ranks in return. As the newly formed council - Flint, the queen, Mr. Scott, Vane, and Eleanor Guthrie - had planned those early raids, they had soon discovered that the only thing that they still needed to harvest was information. 

 

Max, as it turned out, had what they needed. She had fled her position as the madam of a brothel on Nassau, and her skills had easily transplanted into this new place. Now she was a spymaster of sorts, receiving and sharing the information that lets them plan their raids. One of the many benefits of having a network of spies throughout the Bahamas and the New World was that with a few careful letters, she was able to maintain her connections -  especially with the assistance of Bonny and Rackham and a stolen sloop from one of their first few raids.

 

If they are to take back Nassau, and from there wage war against civilization itself - they need information about its new residents. Max can provide that information, and for that, she is given a seat on the war council. 

 

It had been Max that Silver had gone to, soon after the first time she had slept with Madi. That first night, when Silver had watched as the moonlight bent around the curve of Madi’s relaxed face, she had been taken by a surge of panic, at what had seemed to start to flourish, the feeling trapped somewhere between her chest and her throat. 

 

When Madi had dipped her head, looking at her through her eyelashes, she had seen what she was offering - what she wanted. When she had kissed her, Silver had followed suit. She had never slept with a woman before - and certainly not like this, never with someone like Madi who looked at her and saw right down to her core. She hadn’t even given Silver’s stump a second look, as she drew her closer, and Silver felt whole for the first time since Nassau under her hands. That first time, when Silver was pressed against the riverbank and she had come with Madi’s name on her lips - it had been like a revelation, the thought that this - 

 

That she could have something like  _ that _ . 

 

The feeling had maybe been planted the first time she had spoken to Madi, and she had felt when she watched Madi sleep - this protectiveness, this  _ love _ \- she didn’t know what to do with it, this growing thing. 

 

So she had gotten dressed, with shaking hands, feeling exposed as she fled back to the quarters that she shared with the men - the unfamiliarity of it all having caught up while she had felt Madi’s heartbeat through her skin. 

 

Max was still on the Ranger when Silver had burst in the next day, and she had calmly set down her inkwell when Silver had said, “Tell me how you knew.” 

 

“About?” 

 

“About Eleanor Guthrie,” Silver says, and she had seen Max realize, “About Anne Bonny - tell me.” She must have painted a desperate picture, for Max had softened, and they had talked. Then Silver had gone back to Madi’s bed the next night, and the night after that, and she had let those feelings grow. 

 

Now, Max is in the middle of directing one of the men - who seems to be sorting through piles of paper for her- when Silver arrives. Some things never change, though - Max is wearing a far more ornate gown than her profession calls for, made of fine pale yellow silk. Even if the hems are fraying, they’re also far cleaner than anyone else in this room. 

 

Silver waits until she turns around. “Max.” 

 

She casts a critical look at Silver, probably looking at the injury on her forehead. “Welcome back. I take it that the raid was a success?” 

 

“Vane threw the magistrate out the window,” Silver says, watching her peer over a letter she’d been holding when Silver came in. “I think we consider that a success.” 

 

“You are here from your captain, are you not?” Max asks, and when Silver nods, she picks up a sheath of papers on the table in her other hand, glancing at a letter in her other hand. “While you were gone, I have received word from my agent in Havana, who was able to tell me that Spanish intelligence has determined that the escort that was outside of the harbor has departed to Saint Lucia.” 

 

“Saint Lucia?” Silver frowns. “I thought it was French.” 

 

“There have been skirmishes, and the British have been pulling ships to provide support,” Max says, and she hands her the letter. “You will see.”

 

Silver “You’re sure of this?” When Max nods, Silver takes the papers from her. The handwriting is fine, the lines evenly spaced on the page, and as she reads, it confirms Max’s words. “When did this come in?” 

 

“Jack came back just last night from Savannah,” she says. “My source delivers the letters from there as to deflect her whereabouts. It’s been dated to a week ago, as you can tell.” 

 

A week. Even Silver knows that that means their timeframe is tight. “Max, thank you,” she says, folding the letter.

 

“The success of a spy ring depends on its secrecy,” Max says. “When you go to take back Nassau, their identities will be compromised, as such information can only come from certain places. By moving on Nassau, I am breaking my source’s cover, and I will need to inform her that she will be in great danger.” 

 

“Send word to her,” Silver says. “If her service leads us to taking back Nassau, there will be a place for her there.” She puts the letter in her jacket. “Is there anything else?”

 

Max nods. “Go to your captain,” she says. “She will want to know this.” 

  
  


  * ••



  
  


As Silver tells her of the information, Flint takes the news in stride. She calls together a meeting of the council, and they file into the room. 

 

Instead of the queen, though, Madi enters the room. “One of my father’s men has fallen gravely ill,” she says, meeting Silver’s eyes. “My mother is with him now, and they have sent me in her place.” 

 

Flint nods, nearly imperceptibly, and they sit around the table. There’s an empty chair at the table, and after a moment, Silver steps forward to take the seat, sitting down with the rest of them, leaning her crutch against the table. 

 

They watch as the captain pulls out a map, spreading it on the table and using tankards to keep the corners from rolling as she explains the development. “With this new intelligence, we are looking at an unobstructed harbor,” she says. “This is the sort of chance that we have been waiting for.”

 

“Then we take it,” Vane says, legs splayed out as he looks around at each of them. “Why the aren’t we already on the ships?” 

 

“There is the matter of logistics,” Flint tells him. “Speed will be of the essence here, and that means we will not be able to turn back, once we make our advance, given the limited timeframe.”

 

Eleanor frowns, considering the map. “What’s to stop them from destroying our ships the moment we enter the area? They’ll still have ships in the harbor, and if we thought that we could hold off a warship all those weeks ago, what stops them from delaying us until the escort returns?” 

 

“We were two ships back then,” Flint tells her. “We have another, plus the three sloops. We’ve been training the men for this fight, and I say we give it to them.” 

 

They had liberated a ship from Charleston, in an attack where Flint had nearly been killed. Silver had been up in the crow’s nest as Flint had hopped the railing, and she had seen the men  approach her from behind. He had obviously heard of the dread Captain Flint, and too cowardly to face her head-on, he had lifted the gun to the back of her head.

 

The only reason that she had seen him in the first place was because she had spent the battle tracking Flint, seeing the short red hair move down below on the deck. She had killed him without hesitation. Afterwards, when both ships were sailing from the harbor, she had stayed in the crow’s nest for a little longer than necessary, her hands shaking too much to climb back down. 

 

“The escort, do we not know that they will be refitting in a few month’s time?” Madi queries. “I thought that was when we planned to retake the island.” 

 

“That was the plan, yes,” Flint says, “But they know that too, and they’ve been planning to accommodate for it for months by now. The British could not predict this new opportunity, though, and so it is a vulnerability that we will be able to exploit.” 

 

Eleanor’s eyes flicker between Madi and Flint. “I say we proceed,” she says. “Flint is right. This chance promises a far greater likelihood of retaking Nassau.”

 

Vane and Madi look unconvinced, though. Silver’s about to speak, when Flint puts her hands on the table. Silver glances at Madi, who meets her gaze steadily. 

 

“There is another matter, before we make any decisions,” Flint says slowly, and Silver drags her eyes away from Madi’s to look at her. “There is a good chance, that in order to pacify the pirates left on the island, the British have offered them pardons.”

 

Vane’s foot drops onto the ground. Eleanor says, “What?” 

 

“Universal pardons,” Flint says, and she looks across the table at Madi. “We know that once the British came back to Nassau, they were able to pacify the resistors in a matter of weeks. It is likely that they offered the pirates pardons, and that they took them.”

 

“Universal pardons,” Eleanor repeats.

 

“Why do you think that?” Madi asks. 

 

“Because I once worked on a plan to pacify Nassau in a similar manner,” Flint says, and Silver’s too surprised to even open her mouth. “It was another time, when there was a war going on, and the circumstances were different, but if the British persuaded the pirates to stand down, it was through the pardons.” 

  
  


  * ••



  
  


The council adjourns without a consensus of how to proceed, and Silver stays behind with Flint. Madi looks between the two of them, then at Silver, before she is the last to exit the room. 

 

Flint speaks up first. “You’re surprised.” 

 

“That you were part of the - Navy, I presume?” Flint nods. “Not very much. Well, I didn’t expect it, but I’m not astonished at the concept.”

 

“It was many years ago,” Flint says, and even her voice sounds heavy, never mind the slump of her shoulders. “But I remain convinced that that is what we face, when we arrive in Nassau.” 

 

Silence fills the room, as Silver tries to think of what to say. “The pardons,” she says, “They forgive all crimes?” 

 

“Yes,” Flint says. “In exchange for honest labor, renunciation of piracy, and allegiance to the king.” 

 

“And you think it would work?” 

 

“It would. It has.” 

 

“That means that we could be facing a greater force.”

 

“It also means that 

 

“All right,” Silver says, and Flint still looks like she’s far away, lost in thought, so she says the first thing that comes to mind - “What if I needed more practice?”

 

Flint looks up at her then, startled. “What?” 

 

“It’s been awhile since we’ve practiced with swords,” Silver says, and she forces her tone to be easy, even as Flint looks at her with raised eyebrows. “How about it, then? It’ll be like the old times.” 

  
  


  * ••



 

When Silver had felt the need to stay back after the meeting, she hadn’t exactly expected this to come out of it. They had walked out into the forest - Flint picking up a second blade from the armory before they left the village - and had kept on going, until they made it to a clearing that the captain deemed suitable. 

 

As her blade meets Flint’s over and over again, she watches Flint’s eyes. Normally, they’d be moving all over her, strategically seeing her weak points, mapping out where Silver falters in order to beat her - but Flint keeps eye contact, even when they’re fighting. With the crutch, she’s a little slower, but she’s figured out how to use the swivelling motion in order to gain momentum on her sword, those green eyes watching as she moves. 

 

Silver duck to avoid a high swing, and she tries to catch Flint unaware. It doesn’t work, but she’s gratified by Flint’s eyes going wide for a second before she recovers, thrusting forward again. They go again and again, going around the clearing, the clang of their swords the only interruption, until they’re both drenched in sweat. 

 

Flint taps Silver’s neck with the flat of her blade, and Silver huffs, finally letting her aching arm drop to her side. “All right, I think you’ve beat me enough,” she says, and after a moment, Flint’s arm falls to her side as well. 

 

She takes the opportunity to sit a fallen log. Flint says, “You’ve gotten better.” 

 

“What, fighting? High praise, considering you could’ve killed me a dozen times in half as many rounds.” 

 

“I meant in general.” She looks down, and Silver follows her gaze, looking at the rings on her fingers that glint right along with the sword hilt. Flint says, “I do believe Madi is a reason for that.” 

 

There’s a beat. “She is, yes,” Silver says, trying to catch Flint’s eye. “I care for her a lot.”

 

She watches as Flint spins one of her rings around her pointer ringer. “When we get to Nassau, we will need a replacement for whoever the British have tried to implement as governor.” She looks up at Silver. “I think Madi should be in that position. 

 

She leans back, only partly in surprise. “Well,” Silver says, “I can’t say I’m unbiased. But yes, she would be suitable in that role.” Madi’s a queen’s daughter through and through, and she can see her sitting at a long table, talking with merchants and traders with the sort of ease of a woman who was born to sit in that chair. 

 

“She is fair and intelligent,” Flint says, “And I hardly see her accepting a bribe. Most importantly, with you at her side, she’ll be able to effect real change in Nassau. Perhaps, if this goes as we’ve planned, she’ll be able to change the entire world.” 

 

“And you?” Silver doesn’t realize that she’s said it until Flint’s startled eyes are on her. “Where do you see yourself, in this tale?”

 

Flint’s quiet for a long time, enough so that when the winds shift through the trees around them, Silver can hear the leaves whisper among themselves. “When we take back Nassau, we will have our home back, we have a chance at something much greater than revenge. There will be a point in which we will need to appeal to people beyond the ones we find in Nassau - convince them to step into the light, be free of their fear at such change. At that point, we’ll need to convince the world that what we have put forward is right, worth that sacrifice. To convince them, the name of Captain Flint need to go back into the darkness.”

 

Silver can’t help but suck in a breath in like she’s been hit. Flint’s not looking at her anymore, and Silver says - orders - “Don’t say that.” 

 

“You have to see that this is what is necessary - “

 

“Don’t say it,” Silver says again. She wants to say something else, to try to ease the insistent push behind her words, but she can’t, not when the yawning feeling behind her ribs stretches out the longer that Flint is silent in response. “Your vision, there is a place for you there, if you allow it.”

 

Flint doesn’t answer her, still spinning the ring on her finger, and Silver feels something start to pile up in her chest, making her breathing come out short. “I thought we were past this. I thought you saw that we could do this without it being your end - “

 

“I do,” Flint says quickly, cutting her off.  Then she adds softly, “I see it now. You don’t have to worry.”

 

Silver wants to say,  _ I find myself filled with far more than worry these days _ , but she doesn’t. Let it be something else added to the air between them. “Don’t you want to ask me?”

 

“Ask you what?”    
  


“How I’m going to convince Eleanor, Vane, the queen, all of them of this endeavor? The risk is great, if we fail.” 

 

“I trust you,” Flint says, and the words carry a certain kind of heaviness to them, and now Silver feels like she’s what’s being unearthed, being exposed to the air between them. “I know whatever story you tell, it is in our best interests if you believe it so.” 

 

“A story,” Silver says. “The tales that build us, destroy us, allow civilization to be built up and pulled down to ruin, all in the blink of an eye. Separating family, lovers, brothers in arms for as long as we have been able to craft such creatures from our words.”

 

“You’ve given this some thought.” 

 

“I’ve woven enough stories for myself, for the crew, for you,“ Silver says, watching as Flint sits down across from her finally, as the sun shines down on both of them. “But I’ve never had much interest in their lasting effect. What happens to those words after their construction, or when they are given freely without pretense?”

 

“You think I’ve somehow coerced stories from you?” Flint asks, and Silver can see how the muscle between her neck and shoulder flexes as she works. “Or do you think that I always must have some pretense behind the words I give?” 

 

Silver snorts despite herself. “Can you tell me that you’ve ever said something mindless in your life?” 

 

The woman gives another quiet laugh. “I suppose you’re right.” She stops again, this time adjusting her sleeve. Silver watches her roll them up, revealing the pale skin on the underside of her forearms, not noticing she’s staring until Flint says, “What is it?” 

 

Silver says, “I think you’ve never given me an answer that I didn’t need to know.” Flint adjusts her other sleeve, but doesn’t resume digging. Silver continues, “I think for the first time, I truly want to know the answer to a question - one that we’ve both been thinking of. You’ve never told me your story.” 

 

The moment stretches out between them. Flint’s shoulders are slightly pulled up, but instead of deflecting Silver’s query, she leans forward, puts her elbows on her knees, still spinning that ring around and around her finger. 

 

The captain’s expression is solemn, but far less on guard than she would have guessed. Silver can see the faded scar over her eyebrow, the freckles that are dusted across her nose as she asks, “Is that what are you asking me for? My story?”

 

“I am,” Silver says, feeling her breathing slow, and Flint’s eyes don’t move from her. “Will you tell me?” 

  
  


  * ••



  
  


_ “I never wanted to talk about women with the men on the ship, not the ways they spoke about them,” McGraw whispers, quiet enough so that she thinks Tommy might still be sleeping. “I never fit in - in many ways, but in that in particular. I thought it was just who I was.” _

 

_ But Tommy isn’t asleep, she realizes, as she turns in her bed - their bed - her pale hair splayed out on the pillow below them. Tommy doesn’t say anything, but she can see the glint of her open eyes, reflecting the light coming from the lone candle on the far end of the room.  _

 

_ “I thought it was just that I would never understand, that I would never want a woman, not like that,” McGraw says finally. Under the sheets, she can feel Tommy reach out, her long fingers rubbing circles on McGraw's bare hip, and she shivers despite the fact she’s felt like she’s been bathed in embers for the entire night. “I thought I - couldn’t.” _

 

_ “I’m reasonably certain that you do, in fact, want a woman in your bed,” Tommy says quietly, her mouth stretching into a tiny smile, as her feet find hers under the covers, pressing between her calves, and McGraw huffs a small laugh. “Unless this has been some sort of rather tragic misunderstanding.” _

 

_ She moves closer until their heads are on the same pillow, until she can feel Tommy’s exhales on her own mouth, and she closes her eyes, tilting her head forward until their foreheads are pressed together. “I don’t think any of them ever loved like this,” she says, and she nearly bites her tongue at the words - there’s a line between sharing a bed and showing Tommy this, showing her the part of her, the words she’s thought for a long time, dissolved so far into her so that they’re practically inseparable. But she doesn’t take it back, even when she feels Tommy’s surprised intake of breath, the way her fingers tighten ever so slightly just below her ribcage. _

 

_ But then, Tommy puts her arm around her waist, pressing against her now like the could just fall into each other. She could exist in the this space for eternity, between the sheets and Tommy’s skin as the world burns around them - and she wouldn’t open her eyes to see the last bit of earth around them go up in flames.  _

 

_ "Where you die I will die, and there will I be buried,” Tommy says quietly, lovingly, and McGraw ducks her head into the warmth of her neck, thankful in the way a sailor prays for a fair sea and sees the clouds turn crimson in the evening, as Tommy whispers into her hair, "May the Lord do so to me, and more also if anything but death parts me from you.” _

  
  


  * ••



  
  


Flint says, “When I lost her - I lost everything.”

  
  


  * ••



  
  


Silver convinces the other members of the council. With a simple vote, it’s decided that they will take the opportunity that has been afforded them, to take back the island.  

 

They make ready to set sail for Nassau in a day’s time. She has the men gathered around her, and to entertain them before she has to break the news that they’ll be working well into the night, she tells them a story from her time back in the brothel. 

 

"I knew this girl who went by the name of Buttock-de-Clink Jenny," Silver says. “She carried around this dog, this strange-looking beast with this long body, these ridiculously short legs - and Jenny, oh, she loved this creature, and all the other girls just allowed it, right up until the dog got loose one night and he chewed through another girl’s stocking. You lot have your squabbles, oh, I know, but you’ve never seen a vicious fight until you have two women arguing over undergarments in the middle of the whorehouse - well, how do you think I lost this leg?“ 

 

Even as the men start to filter back to the beach, preparing to load the ship, she can’t get the thought out of her head.  _ Flint loved a woman _ . It’s a fact that doesn’t shock Silver - she remembers Flint pinning her up against the wall, remembers the weight of her thigh between her legs - but there’s a step between fucking a woman and loving her. 

 

_ Flint loved a woman _ . 

 

She realizes, she can’t picture Flint in love. She can’t see Flint in the embrace of some faceless English lady, Flint looking at someone with the expression that Madi has on her face when she looks at her. She’s seen Flint covered in blood, her face twisted in a snarl as she shoots someone, but in love - she can’t reconcile the two realities. 

 

Silver finds herself going to Max’s quarters, and as she limps up the path that leads to the house, she thinks again,  _ Flint loved a woman _ . 

  
Silver taps on the doorframe. “Max?”

 

It’s not Max who answers. Instead, Silver finds herself nearly nose to nose with Anne Bonny. 

 

“Oh,” Silver says, “Pardon me.”

 

The woman grunts, “What’d you want?”

 

For the little she’s spoken with the woman, Silver still takes an instinctive step back. Only then she realizes that Bonny’s in a long shirt, her hair loose and tangled, and there’s a faint bruise at the base of her neck. She looks rumpled but evidently at ease, and Silver is caught at the thought,  _ Has Flint looked like this _ ?

 

Bonny crosses her arms and glowers down at Silver the longer she stares. “The fuck’s wrong with you?”

 

Before she can slide a knife between Silver’s ribs, though, Max appears. She’s more dressed than her lover, but she’s missing the customary dark makeup around her eyes. “Silver,” Max says. She says something in French to the other woman, then, “Go back to sleep.” 

 

Bonny gives Silver another narrow-eyed look before she steps back into the darkened room.

 

“An afternoon rest, was it?” Silver says in the silence that follows, and Max gives the tiniest huff. 

 

“She was on the night watch on the Ranger until this morning,” Max says. “As she is to be departing with the rest of you tomorrow, we wanted the rest of the day together.”

 

“You’re not coming?” 

 

She looks at Silver like she’s being particularly slow. “I do not see my place in the upcoming battle.” 

 

“When we’re sitting in that fort once again, we need it to be known that pirates have returned to Nassau,” Silver says. “That we’re the ones who’ve ousted the British. We’ll need your connections back in the town, to establish our place once again. There are some things that we both know can’t be won simply with gunpowder.”

 

“And if you do not succeed?”

 

“We’ll succeed,” Silver says, and she’s stuck for a moment when she realizes that somewhere along the line, she believes in it - truly. Even with everything’s that happened to them over the last few months, she knows that she and Max are two sides of the same coin, and if she feels so strongly - well, she thinks Max has to. “I know that you would have never gone to all this trouble if you too did not believe it.”

 

Max looks at her, really looks at her, and Silver waits. When Max doesn’t say anything, Silver prompts her, “What is it?” 

 

“You think that when we get to Nassau, that this will work,” she says. “You think once you make it back to that island, that this will be final, that there is no going back.” 

 

Something about Max’s tone plucks at her, and she feels a rush of irritation. “Well yes, Max, that would be the purpose of this battle.”

 

“After the Rosario raids, Eleanor took control of her father’s business,” Max says. “When the Spanish came, the British took control. When you go back to Nassau, if you chase the British out, you’ll take control. Who comes next?”    


  
“Ideally, it would take a little longer for such a transition - “

 

“I know you, Silver,” Max says sharply. “It’s not your belief in any plan that makes you delude yourself in this manner, rather, it’s who’s managed to blind you to the chance that none of you return from this  _ battle _ .” 

 

“Madi sees the value in this plan, same as I - “

 

“Not Madi,” Max says, and it’s like she’s struck Silver. “It’s not her who I speak of.” 

 

“What?”   
  


“I’ve seen the way you look at her,” Max says.“You speak of this grand vision you have, only it’s not just your vision.”

 

“Now, hang on - “

 

“Some time ago, I warned you about her. The men think you free of Captain Flint’s control, but I fear that you have been convinced by her words as well, that you have become too closely involved - “ She lets her words dangle, as it to make her point clear. “Am I wrong?” 

 

Silver breathes in and out of her nose, feeling her nostrils flare. “You don’t understand,” she settles on. “Flint and I, we’re partners. And I, for one, am growing tired of the insinuation that she is somehow using me through all of this - or that she hasn’t sacrificed more than anyone else on this island.”

 

Max looks to the side, as they both fall silent for a while. “Anne is going on that ship tomorrow because Jack will be on that ship,” Max says, and something vulnerable just barely passes over her face, like she has to take a moment before continuing, “If I had my way, I would not let her. I would keep her somewhere safe away from you, from Flint - but I cannot, just as we cannot know if victory lies at the end of this road. That is what sacrifice is. What would you and Flint sacrifice, and do those views align?”

 

Silver realizes, then. It all comes together, the pieces clicking together in her mind - and she just barely manages to school her features, but perhaps not fast enough, as Max says, “Be safe, Silver,” and she closes the door. 

 

_ Sacrifice.  _ Silver thinks they’ve all had enough sacrifice for a lifetime. 

  
  


  * ••



  
  


Silver finds Madi in the hut, where she has an book open on the table in front of her. Usually, she’d lean in the doorway, watch her read for as long as the woman would let her - but Madi turns, sees the look on her face, and she closes the book.

 

“We need to talk,” Silver says, but then of course, she doesn’t know what to say - Madi will see through any attempt that she could make at obfuscation. She doesn’t want to, either, not with this. 

 

“I see,” Madi says. 

  
  
“I’ve realized - “ Silver tries to find the words. “Over the past few months, I’ve come to the realization, well, that the situation between Flint and I - it’s complicated.“ 

 

 _By_ _me_ , she doesn’t have to say out loud. 

 

“You love her,” Madi says. The words are simple, and they draw something out of her chest, enough to make her fingers clench onto her handle of her crutch. “Don’t you?” 

  
“Yes,” Silver says.

 

“Do you still love me?” 

 

“What -  _ Madi. _ ” She crosses the room, then, and although she can’t kneel at her feet, she takes Madi’s hands in hers with the urgency that she needs to show - “You must know - of course I do.” 

 

“My problem is not that you love another alongside me,” Madi says, carefully. “It is that it is her.” 

 

“Her?” 

 

“I do not trust Flint,” Madi says, and the words sting. “I’ve seen the way you throw yourself into whatever she walks into, without a care. I’m - afraid that without me to ground you, without me there, you’ll be lost, and I don’t think I could ever forgive her.” 

 

“I”m going to come back to you,” Silver promises. “We’ll be victorious, and you’ll come to Nassau, and we’ll figure it all out.”

 

Madi is quiet, the lantern on the corner of the table growing dimmer. “Are you going to tell her?” 

 

“I can’t,” Silver says. “She’s lost people in the past. She can’t - I won’t do that to her.” 

 

“I am sorry.”

 

Silver hates pity, hasn’t let any pitied her for a long time - and she look away from that look in Madi’s eyes, as she says, “You don’t have to be.” 

 

“You deserve love,” Madi says, catching Silver’s eye. “To be loved by you - well, I am sorry she cannot experience it as well.”

 

That makes something rise in her throat, so Silver kisses her then, unable to articulate the range of emotions that she feels she’s unearthened just now. 

 

That night, she feels more desperate than usual when she pulls Madi on top of her, kisses down the smooth skin of her stomach. When Madi kisses along her thighs, she makes encouraging sounds when her teeth bite down on her flesh, wanting her to leave marks, bruises that ground her to this bed and keep her thoughts from letting her drift away. 

 

Max’s words still haunt her as they lie together afterwards, and she shifts, feeling Madi press her nose against her neck, as if the touch can drown out her recollections. 

  
  


  * ••



 

Silver would think that after her revelation, she would do  _ something _ . 

 

But the next morning, after she kisses Madi farewell before joining up with the men again, she sees Flint, and she wonders if Flint will see it the next time she looks at her. If she’ll take one look at her face, understand in an instant what Silver has just realized - what would she do, then?

 

But when Flint glances up at her as she approaches, she merely asks, “Ready?”

 

“As I will ever be,” Silver says, watching Flint nod. It doesn’t feel like anything has changed, and she would attribute it to that this is a one-sided phenomenon - only she thinks, with dawning clarity, that it might have something to do with the fact that she’s been in love with Flint for a while now, and it’s just taken her this long to catch up. 

 

On the beach, Eleanor stands there, next to Madi. She’s staying behind as well - to her displeasure, Silver is sure - and not that anyone wants to say it out loud, but if they all die in an attempt to take back Nassau, it’s pragmatic to have someone who knows the island to still be alive at the end of the day. Max is next to her, and as Silver gets in one of the launches, her gaze meets Silver’s. 

 

“When we are successful, we’ll be back shortly,” Flint says, probably seeing the look on Silver’s face as she get into the boat next to her. “They’ll come back to a changed island, a place we will build.” 

 

That, Silver thinks, she’s not sure any of them will be ready for. 

 

“Get us to the Walrus,” Silver orders the men, and then they’re on their way. 

 

  * ••



 

The voyage to Nassau only takes a few days, and in that time, Silver focuses on not driving herself mad with thoughts of love.  _ Not now _ , she tells herself. They have a siege on Nassau to prepare for, and she can’t - won’t - bring it up, not when it could court such disastrous circumstances. 

 

She thinks that if it were a few months ago, when it was lust that was curled up in her bones, maybe she could’ve fucked Flint and they could have gone from there. It would have been easier, certainly, but when has anything gone easily between them?

 

So she goes over the plans with Flint, with DeGroot, dines with the men and keep their morale up, and resolutely keeps herself busy. Flint works long hours into the night anyway, going over battle plans with Vane when he comes over to the ship. Their murmurs are the last thing that Silver hears when she dozes in the hammock across the room, the swaying of the boat rocking her to sleep. 

 

In the morning, Silver is preparing to go out on deck, her mind still groggy from sleep, when she sees that Flint is still in her chair. 

 

She assumes that she’s going over charts once again, only then she sees that Flint’s holding some leather-bound book, which Silver can see isn’t her ship’s log. Nor is it one of the books that she recognizes Flint reading when she’s in a pensive mood, as Silver sees her fingers stroke up and down the spine. She would think the captain is deep in thought, only then her eyes look at at Silver when she rises from the hammock. 

 

“Let me guess, some Shakespeare copy,” Silver says, grabbing her crutch so that she can make her way over to the desk. “Descartes?”

 

“No,” Flint says, and Silver watches as she very carefully closes the book, puts it on the desk. What she doesn’t expect is for Flint to then push it across the surface, towards her. “It was… a gift.” 

 

Silver opens the book, feeling the worn leather underneath her fingertips. On the first page, there’s flowing handwriting.  _ My truest love _ , she reads, and her eyes blur. 

 

“Tommy gave it to me,” Flint says, and when Silver glances up at her, her eyes are still on the page. “It’s one of the few things I ever received from her.”

 

Something inside her tightens. This is another evidence of the woman that Flint had loved, and the idea that she’s holding the book that that woman had held, even, brings with it everything that Silver’s been trying to avoid thinking about for the past few days. 

 

“Marcus Aurelius,” Silver says finally, looking at the cover. “An interesting choice.” 

 

“All things are interwoven with one another; a sacred bond unites them; there is scarcely one thing that is isolated from another,” Flint recites, as though she’s memorized every word in the book. “Everything is coordinated, everything works together in giving form to one universe.” 

 

Silver lets her fingers linger over the handwriting once again - evidence of what she’s been told, but as she traces the lines with her finger, she watches Flint’s eyes follow the gesture. “Wise words,” she says, feeling something inside her splinter.

 

She doesn’t know what she’s hurtling toward, but it’s something - and she can only guess she impact she’ll have. 

  
  


  * ••



  
  


The night before the battle, she finds Flint on the deck. 

 

The sun’s long set, and as she approaches, Flint doesn’t even turn her head, even when she leans on the railing next to her. Both of them face the sea for a stretch of time, seeing the moon highlight the crests of the waves as they go by. 

 

Silver’s reminded of when they sat on the roof of McGraw’s cottage, watching the sun rise - and how far they’ve come, since then, and yet, Flint is still so far away. 

 

“Earlier, I was reaffirming the importance of tomorrow’s battle to the men,” Silver says, needing to say something lest her tongue betray her. “Do you know what they said to me?” 

 

Flint stays silent, so Silver says, “They told me not they had their concerns over the validity of our orders. They weren’t afraid. They told me that they’d make me  _ proud _ . ” 

 

"It was pride that changed angels into devils; it is humility that makes men as angels,” Flint recites, and Silver huffs. “I suppose that’s the view saints must take, after all.” 

 

“If you’re making a point captain, I’m no devil, and you’re certainly no saint.” They stay standing, even when the angle makes Silver’s stump ache, the ocean passing them by as the sails creak overhead.

 

“Men will die, yes,” Flint says, and she fiddles with one of her rings. “But what we are facing, is it not worth the chaos?”

 

“Chaos,” Silver says, “Implies that there is an absence of it. That there is something more than the wailing, the screaming, the pain that comes along with whatever it is we’re attempting. That what we are entering will cease.” 

 

“It will pass,” Flint says. “It always does.” 

 

The silence extends as they both watch each other, and Silver thinks,  _ Maybe this is it _ . 

 

“Do you believe that?” she hears herself ask. 

 

_ Will we pass, too?  _

 

“I believe that nothing is inevitable,” Flint says, and Silver turns with a start. “Didn’t you tell me that once?” 

 

In response to that, Silver takes a step closer. The movement is surprising to them both, and like the waves that go by, Silver feels something shifting underneath her skin - and she can’t control it anymore.

 

In the dark, she takes a chance, and her mouth finds Flint’s. 

 

Flint’s still under her, and Silver drags her mouth ever so carefully, mostly expecting to be pushed back - if she’s done this, she’s going to commit to whatever consequence this calls for. Then, Flint’s hands come up to Silver’s arms, pulling her closer, and Silver lets out a sound that’s something like a sigh. 

 

But then Flint’s hands are pushing her back, and as Silver blinks, not sure when he eyes closed, Flint looks - Flint looks furious in a way that takes her back to the day when she had watched her kill Singleton, as Flint’s fingers curl into her arms a little before ripping them away like Silver’s burning her. 

 

“When I told you about Tommy,” Flint says, nearly spitting, and her mouth is still wet - “That was in confidence. I thought you would understand - that you would not dare to  _ use it  _ \- “

 

Relief and irritation wash over Silver - she’s not rejecting her, at least not in the way that Silver had expected. Flint looks ready to whirl away, and Silver doesn’t want to trap her - but her hand catches Flint’s wrist, her fingers sliding underneath the coat. “I’m not using anything,” Silver says, her voice unsteady, but as Flint presses her lips together, she steadies herself. “This is about me and you.”

“What about us?”

 

“What we’ve been,” Silver says, and this might be among some of the most important words that she’s ever had to craft, in this moment. “What we could be.” 

 

The sails move from the wind, the sounds of fabric shifting the only thing they can hear. 

 

Flint says “For me, this isn’t - this wouldn’t be temporary.”

 

Hope blooms in her chest, and Silver doesn’t dare pass up this - not when she can feel Flint’s heartbeat racing under her fingertips. “This is no passing thing,” Silver says, and she sees the look on Flint’s face intensify, as she steps forward, slower, and when she tilts her face up, Flint lets her come close, and she kisses her again. 

 

Their noses are pressed together a little uncomfortably at this angle, but Silver doesn’t care, not when she can drink in the taste of her, breathing in as their mouths slide together. Flint tilts her head to the side ever so slightly, and it lets them press closer as her tongue runs over Flint’s bottom lip, and it’s Flint’s turn to groan into the kiss.

 

She breaks for air first, and her hands have found their way to Flint’s waist. Through the coat, she can feel Flint’s breathing, like the tide coming in and out. 

 

The next decision is far easier to make, as Silver feels drunk off the taste of her, unwilling to let go - but she’s always been greedy, and it extends to this moment as she wants more. 

 

Flint’s boot is between her shoe and her peg leg, and when Silver carefully slides the fake leg back, untangling them, she gives Flint a lingering look as she makes her way to the cabin. 

 

Her back’s to Flint, but as she moves across the desk, she hears the smallest sigh, and then Flint’s hand touches the small of her back, letting her know she’s following. Silver leads her like this, opening the cabin door for them. Finally in the light, she turns around, and she knows that Flint can see the flush that’s climbing up the back of her neck, especially when she strips off her jacket and tosses it aside. 

 

“I hadn’t thought that this would be the time for this,” Silver starts, then stops. “I didn’t - know.” 

 

Flint looks like she’s thinking too, only there’s a line growing in the middle of her forehead, between her eyebrows - “You and Madi?”

 

“She knows,” Silver says. Flint doesn’t ask what she  _ thinks _ about it, though, and the longer they stand there, Silver’s struck with the thought that Flint might be thinking of her own love then - her lost English lady. Irrational jealousy strikes her - and how could she be jealous of a dead woman? - so Silver tamps the feeling down, and she asks, “Do you want to be here?”  

 

Flint says, “I don’t expect anything from you. We don’t need to do anything.” She pauses, then, and already, she can tell that the captain is thinking too much. “I could go - “

 

“Fuck that,” Silver says instantly, and she closes the distance once again, seizing the front of Flint’s jacket and tugging her in. Flint makes a surprised noise, one that Silver licks out of her mouth, and then she’s kissing back just as hard, their teeth clacking. This, this is what Silver might have pictured, all that time ago when there was just hate between them, only Flint’s hands are deceptively soft as they come up around Silver’s elbows, steadying her as they kiss. 

 

Silver blindly pushes her towards the bed, only she realizes that she wants Flint underneath her, and they’re pressed too close to easily maneuver around each other. “Hang on - “ she huffs out, as Flint’s mouth slides across hers, to her jaw, where her teeth lightly drag. “Bed - “ 

 

But before she can tell Flint what she wants, the back of her thighs hit the captain’s bed, and she’s forced to sit down with a soft grunt. Flint towers above her, and Silver thinks that if Flint’s the one to use her heavy weight to pin her down this time - and isn’t that a dangerous thought, when they’re a few hours away from a bloody fight - she’ll take it. 

 

But Flint drops in front of her, her knees hitting the wooden floor in a way that must be painful, and this way she’s a little shorter than Silver, as Silver’s hands come up to grasp the back of her neck. Her fingers slide in Flint’s short hair - and for a moment, she misses the longer strands, lacking anything now to tug at, the short pieces just getting ruffled under her grip. Flint leans forward, presses a kiss to where Silver’s shirt has ridden up, then another, softer one just below her navel. 

 

“Captain,” Silver warns, as Flint’s tongue darts out, wetting her bottom lip as her hands slide up Silver’s thighs. “I swear to God, if you don’t stop  _ teasing _ \- “

 

Flint kisses her hip then, then the other one, as her hands push Silver’s shirt up. Her hands come up to cup Silver’s breasts, as she tugs her shirt over her head, her hair getting stuck for a moment as Flint’s thumb runs over her nipple, tracing the curve of her breast, her teeth now skimming down a hipbone. The air should be cold on her bare torso, only Flint’s looking up at her, her eyes roving over Silver’s heaving chest, the small marks that Madi had left on her ribs, and she looks  _ captivated _ . 

 

On her knees, Flint looks the closest to devout as Silver thinks she can ever appear. Only instead of asking for God’s forgiveness, she looks like she’s tempting sinners when her fingers start to undo Silver’s trousers, her eyes on Silver’s, her lips parted. Her fingers feel cool against Silver’s overheated skin, as Flint runs her tongue over her bottom lip before looking down to focus on the task at hand - 

 

“Wait, “ Silver gets out, caught between leaning into Flint’s hands and shifting back so that Flint can work her pants down - and Flint freezes, starts to rock back, but Silver’s hand clasps the back of her neck, stopping her. “My leg,” she says in ways of explanation, and Flint watches as Silver works her boot off on one foot, then sliding the prosthetic leg off with a grimace. She takes advantage of the space to work off her trousers, finally, and now she’s naked in front of Flint, feeling exposed and  _ incredibly _ aroused as Flint’s eyes dart all over her.

 

The peg leg falls to the ground with a thud, and there’s a not too small part of her that worries that Flint hasn’t thought about this -  the ugly scar going up her leg, the misshapen end of her stump. What’s worse, she doesn’t want Flint to stop, doesn’t want her to treat her like glass at the reminder of her injury. But Flint just presses a kiss just above the stump, along the line of the scar, and Silver’s own mouth drops as she moves her mouth up, higher, spreading Silver’s legs until she’s finally licking at Silver’s cunt, giving a groan as she tastes her for the first time. 

 

“You, you’re  _ perfect _ , fuck - “ Silver grits out, as Flint licks up and down her once again. “Your mouth - oh - “ Flint’s mouth works at her, her nose digging against Silver’s clit as she sucks and hums and Silver’s head is falling back, feeling the sensation rattle all the way through her. She should have known that Flint would be good at this, that the sort of searing, singular intensity she has in everything is translated into this. Flint’s fingers join her mouth, and when she slides one into Silver, the pressure makes her keen, her own fingers trying their best to dig into the back of Flint’s head as her hips move forward, grinding against Flint’s face. 

 

Flint moans against her, the vibrations making Silver bite down on her tongue, and her spare hand slide up her thigh again, dipping low until her hand grabs a cheek. Silver realizes it’s encouragement, as she shifts forward on the bed, closer to where Flint’s tongue is sliding in along her finger, licking around as Silver adjusts her hips until Flint’s finger hits just the right spot, and she gasps. “ _ There _ \- “

 

Flint rewards her by thrusting her tongue in even more, adding a second finger, and now Silver’s gasping with every thrust, the sounds inhuman as she grinds forward. Flint curls her fingers, and for a while, Silver is caught by the sensations, Flint’s hand now gripping the side of her hip as she chants, “Come on - come  _ on -  _ “ 

 

She thinks she might be saying it to Flint, but this is too much and not enough - she wants to see Flint naked, wants to taste her, but she doesn’t want Flint to stop, not when she’s so close -  

 

Silver’s hand snakes in above Flint’s head ,and she rubs at her aching clit, finally, and feels her legs tense. The captain moans when Silver’s movement starts to get hurried, as she can feel her getting closer, and closer.

 

Her orgasm hits her with the sort of intensity that she thinks about lightning in the middle of the summer, the heat blazing through her as she clenches around Flint’s fingers, freely moaning as Flint’s mouth continues to work at her. Flint lets her ride out the storm against her face, until Silver’s shuddering above her, trying to catch her breath, and Flint finally pulls back.

 

She looks ruined, her mouth swollen and soaked, and Silver watches as Flint’s tongue darts out, tastes her again. She rasps, “Up here - get up here - “

 

The sound of Flint’s coat hitting the floor is more erotic than she would have guessed, especially as Flint surges up, unwilling to let go of her even as Silver’s hands try to take off her shirt. Flint kisses her again, and Silver can taste herself in Flint’s mouth, as her tongue drags along the roof of Flint’s mouth, her fingers working at that  _ damned _ studded belt, ripping it away with satisfaction.

 

She’s delighted to learn that Flint doesn’t have any bindings under her shirt, her breasts revealed as soon as she gets Flint’s shirt off. It’s her turn to play the stunned devotee, now, as more of Flint’s skin is revealed to her eyes, watching as the captain gets her boots and trousers off before straightening up. The lantern on the captain’s desk illuminates her in a soft glow, as Flint stands  in front of her, gloriously bare, stepping forward until she’s between Silver’s open thighs. Silver closes her legs around her, eyes roving down the expanse of flesh. 

 

She’s got freckles that go down her biceps, crawling down her chest, sprinkled on the roundness of her stomach, the thick muscle of her thighs flexing slightly under Silver’s hungry gaze.

 

“How do you want me?” Flint asks, her voice as rough as Silver’s, as Silver reaches out, touches the tattoo - an outline of a moon - on her bicep, tracing it. Now that she can touch, she wants to feel Flint pressed up against her everywhere, only the words are caught on her tongue. She wonders if Flint will let her kiss each cluster of freckles, each scar and injury that she’s accumulated over the years, as she leans forward to briefly press a kiss to the rounded curve of the bottom of her breast, letting her lips close around a dusky nipple for a second.

 

Flint shifts, making a sound low in her throat, and as Silver pulls back to take her in once again, in a moment that’s nearly too shy, she picks up one of Silver’s wrists, kissing her snake tattoo. “Can I - “ Flint asks, and Silver nods, as Flint moves until she’s sitting on the bed next to her. 

 

Sitting side by side, they’re the same height. Flint leans forward, and they kiss, softer, but then it grows in intensity as Silver begins to regain feeling in her limbs. She reaches until her fingers are splayed on Flint’s thigh, even broader when it’s pressed against the bed, as Flint’s tongue curls against hers, sharing the taste of her. 

 

She moans into her mouth when Silver’s fingers curl to the inside of her thigh - the skin is softer there, as she digs her fingers in ever so slightly, feeling the ridge of a scar under her arm, an injury that wraps from her hip all the way to the front of her thigh. She wonders when the last time Flint’s been touched like this, the last time Flint’s had someone bring her such pleasure. She breaks away to move closer, her mouth going to Flint’s neck, tasting the skin where it meets her shoulder, biting and kissing as Flint’s breathing gets heavier. 

 

Her fingers make it to trace lightly against Flint’s cunt, and Silver can feel how wet she is, her thighs shifting back and forth as her fingers trace around her entrance before moving back up to tease at the sensitive skin at the very inside of her thigh. When she moves her head back up, Flint’s eyes are on where her hand, her hips shifting forward ever so slightly as she lets Silver explore, and then she meets Silver’s eyes. Her pupils are dilated, a sliver of green around them, and on impulse, Silver leans forward, catches her lower lip between her teeth, as she starts rubbing Flint’s clit in honest, long circles until she finds a rhythm that makes Flint moan, long and a little wrecked, into her mouth. 

 

Flint kisses back then, with the same sort of hunger she had shown with her mouth against Silver’s cunt, as Silver works at her clit. Silver wants to swing her leg over, sit in her lap, only there’s no way to keep the weight off her damn stump. She licks into mouth once again, speeding up the motion of her hand as Flint starts to shake. She must make some frustrated noise, as this angle isn’t quite what she needs - and so Flink pulls back. 

 

Before Silver can chase after her, though, Flint moves back on the bed, and she leans back among the pillows. If she was beautiful before, like this, Silver could die happy with the image of Flint splayed out like that burned on the backs of her eyelids. 

 

She moves forward, careful to lift her stump until she can lay down, Flint parting her legs to make room, as she settles on top of her. Flint’s a genius, for when they’re pressed together like this, Silver’s leg works itself between Flint’s legs at just the right angle so that when she lets her weight fully drop down, Flint sucks in a breath. 

 

Silver ducks down, kisses along the ridge of her collarbone, the tops of her breast as she shifts, letting Flint’s hips come up and rub against her thigh. 

 

“You - “ Silver manages, as she flexes her leg, seeing Flint’s eyes half-close, her head going back among the pillows as she mindlessly ruts against Silver’s thigh, “I want - I want my mouth on you - “

 

They’re not much in a position to change, but Flint doesn’t seem to be in a rush, other than the rocking motion of her hips. As Flint gasps again, Silver continues, “I want to have you over me, have your cunt against my mouth - God, captain, you’re so hot against me, I want to taste when you come, want you to be dripping as I lick into you, until I’m just drenched - “ 

 

“Stop -  _ ah  _ \- making promises,” Flint grits out, and there’s sweat beading up on her forehead, as her strong hands come to pull Silver tighter against her, “Start acting -  _ oh _ \-  _ Silver _ -” 

 

She thinks that Flint might just make an honest woman out of her, if it means holding her to that fantasy. Silver puts her fingers into her own mouth, watching as Flint’s eyes open to see how she wets them, before she reaches down between them, manages to wedge her hand in between her leg and Flint’s cunt, grappling around until she finds Flint’s clit again.

 

With her fingers, Flint moans, just a little out of control. Beneath them, the bed is creaking, the sound itself barely registering as they both breathe heavily, filling the room with the heady scent of sex. Silver is going to fight every single British regular herself if it means that she can get Flint splayed out on a real bed like this - maybe she wants Flint above her, riding her fingers until her flush nearly covers her freckles, tugging at Silver’s hair as she finishes - 

 

Not one to get caught up in the image when she’s got Flint groaning right below her, Silver rubs against her with renewed purpose, watching as Flint clenched her teeth, feels her quiver against her hand. She presses her thumb even more against Flint’s clit, her fingers cupping against the rest of her as Flint starts to shake. “That’s it,” Silver says, watching her face, seeing when Flint’s mouth opens, her back arching in a silent shout, “Come on, there it is - “ 

 

Flint comes, and she bends up so that her face is near Silver’s, so that Silver can feel the exhale as her whole body tenses. Silver herself reaches down with her damp hand, vigorously rubbing herself off until she’s coming again, her vision blurring around the edges as she rides out the waves, collapsing against Flint’s chest. 

 

In a post-coital haze, Flint is much more tactile, her lip dragging against Silver’s shoulder as they lie there. “I suppose now, there is no pretense between us,” she says into Silver’s skin.

 

“I think,” Silver says, and her body is still humming, crowding out any real thought, “That’s been a long time coming.” 

 

Flint lets out an exhale that makes her feel like they’re both sinking through the bed. “Couldn’t do  _ that  _ on a hammock,” she says, and the words catch Silver in a particular way and she snorts, hiding her laughter with her face pressed against Flint’s clavicle. 

  
  


  * ••



 

Only when Flint falls asleep, that buzzing in her head goes away, and she’s finally able to think clearly.

 

She thinks about the upcoming battle. Max’s words still are insistent in the corner of her mind, and she thinks about Flint’s face outside, earlier, unreadable in the dark. 

 

Only Flint had shown her, and she had given Silver the light in which to see her. Flint is determined to see this through, and Silver - 

Silver will watch at this consumes her once again. No matter how Flint looks at her, she’ll always still have the ghosts that linger on the edge of her world. 

 

Ghosts, Silver can understand. There are things that haunt everyone, and there are those who can move by them, and those who listen to such whispers. She thinks about Madi, telling her that she sees Silver’s end born from Flint’s ambivalence. 

 

Only Madi doesn’t know her, not like Silver does - and as Flint shifts in her sleep, Silver realizes that she might be the closest person in the world to her. The truth, if she’s being honest to herself, is that in return, Flint might know her better than anyone else. 

 

Max was right about that - if they take control of Nassau, it’s just a matter of time before one is unwilling to pay the cost, and they reenter the cycle from which they claim to break free. Flint will be lost one way or another, if she continues this path - and with Flint, Madi, Vane, Eleanor, anyone who has attached themselves to such a place, it’s only a matter of time before their hold becomes their end, when they are unable to detach from something that shifts. 

 

She should know, after all. Attachments keep you from moving in this world, and at the end of the day, anything can be broken. 

 

She can’t let that happen. 

 

With that, she realizes, and in her mind, the pieces come together. 

 

Once she’s sure that Flint’s in a deep slumber, Silver gets up, fishes the letter out of her coat pocket from across the room. She traces the words, thinks about the fort crumbling around her, and she realizes what exactly she’s holding in her hands. 

 

In her experience, if it’s at all possible, it can be. 

 

As Silver goes back to the bed, despite the pit forming in her stomach, she’s just selfish enough to pull Flint’s arm back around her, as the other woman sleeps on. She stares up at the ceiling, her mind whirling.

 

She wonders what Aurelius would have to say about that. 

  
  


  * ••



  
  


The morning light filters in through the large window on the far side of the cabin. She feels someone stroking the small of her back, right over her recent tattoo.

 

Silver opens her eyes, sees Flint’s already open, watching her sleep. 

 

“We’ll be approaching Nassau shortly,” Flint says, her breath light against Silver’s face. In the middle of the night, they’ve shifted so that both their heads are aligned, Flint’s hand stilling on her back. “We need to be preparing.” 

 

Silver leans in, and brushes her lips against Flint’s. “I know,” she says. “We will.” 

 

Flint hesitates before saying, “This is going to complicate things.”

 

Rather than answer, Silver leans in for a long, lazy kiss. As she tries to persuade her to put off getting out of bed for a little while longer, she thinks that they’re both trying to convince each other with every touch.

 

  * ••



 

As they approach the harbor, one of the men spots the first ship. Flint looks through her eyeglass, sees British colors. 

 

“They’re signalling us, captain,” the man says, and she glances over to Silver, whose eyes are on the other ship. She hasn’t opened her gunports, nor does it appear to be a trap - so Flint orders them to proceed, keeping an eye around them just in case it starts to go south. It’s not like they can go around her into the harbor, anyways. 

 

She signals for Vane and the others to hang back, and the Walrus slips forward. When they draw close, she sees through her scope that it’s none other than Benjamin Hornigold standing on the deck.

 

“They’re sailing under the British flag,” Silver says from beside her. “Does that mean - “

 

“It’s been done,” Flint says grimly, closing her scope. “They’ve accepted the pardons.” 

 

“Attention, crew of the Walrus!” Hornigold calls, his voice just audible over the crash of waves. In my capacity as duly appointed servant of His Majesty King George the First, I address you directly.”

 

Silver says, “He can’t mean to - “

 

“Surrender at once, and I am authorized to offer you full, unqualified pardons,” Hornigold calls, and Flint’s fingers tighten on her glass. “Your ship will be commandeered and you will be given a choice of either entering into my service or passage to another port. Refuse, and I shall grant no quarter.”

 

He seems to look right at Flint, then. “You can die for your tyrant captain today, or you can live to see tomorrow. This is your choice.”

 

The gun ports stay closed, and Flint turns to face her crew.

 

There are mixed reactions among them - some disbelieving, some furious, some confused. Some hopeful. 

 

Flint waits until the wind dies down, so that no man will have to even strain to hear her words. She says, “That man there, he tells you he is offering you a choice. You can walk away from this fight if you just sign your name beneath a solemn oath never again to do violence against it.”

 

She says, “But I will not.”

 

The ship groans around them, the men silent. 

 

“Not after all it has taken from me. Not after all it has taken from you. I will do great violence against that thing.” 

 

Across the path, she can see Silver’s face - and something about her expression is strange, as she watches Flint speak. But perhaps it’s the shadow from the sails casting down on her, Flint thinks, as she continues. 

 

“They say they will pardon us all, but I say to offer to pardon something one fears is the act of a coward. To offer them to us, right here, when we threaten what they hold, it suggests that their fear of us is becoming unmanageable, that we have shown them what we are capable of and it terrifies them.”

 

More of the men are nodding along now, and Flint calls, “Do any of you want to surrender to men who fear you?”

 

The men mumble, but then Flint hears it - “No!” 

 

The men echo each other, and their voices grow, as they begin stomping on the deck, until it drowns out the wind, it drowns out the blood that’s pumping in her ears, and it drowns out anything that Hornigold might be trying to say. 

 

Flint says, “Fuck Benjamin Hornigold, his king, and their pardons. This war isn't nearly over.”

 

She walks forward, looks down below where the gun crews are waiting. 

 

Flint says, “Fire at will.” 

  
  


  * ••



 

The battle for Nassau is brutal but quick.  

 

They fire on Hornigold’s ship, and under Flint’s command, she’s soon overwhelmed. The Ranger approaches, and they’re able to slide into the harbor, engage with the fort, while the battle in the harbor continues. 

 

There’s a resounding cheer when Hornigold’s ship starts to take on water, and Silver starts shooting from the main deck. When they’re close enough, Flint orders the men to board the ship. In between shots, Silver watches as she leads the vanguard over the edge, fending off a sword thrust at her by some British regular, and Flint neatly kicks him over the side. 

 

She watches as Flint and Hornigold engage in a fight, their swords clanging against each other. There’s a moment when Hornigold gets in a lucky blow, cutting Flint’s arm - and as she recovers, he pulls out a pistol, aims it at the captain. 

 

Silver holds her breath, but then Flint manages to slash at his chest, forcing him back, and then she shoots him right in the head. 

 

It’s not long, then, before Flint’s standing in the middle of the other ship, her shirt stained with blood, shoulders heaving, but they’re victorious. 

 

As the Ranger provides cover, the Walrus leads the sloops to the beach. Flint had promised the fight of a life, and Silver thinks she’s delivered it, as they storm the beach.

 

They’re on one of the launches that goes to the beach, and as soon as the boat makes contact with the sand, Flint is leaping out, her sword blurring in the air, dispatching any and all pirate traitors in her path as she leads the advance. 

 

Silver is in the second wave, and as she ducks a slash to her head, she uses her crutch to trip the man so that she can shoot him in the chest. She can hear the resounding shouting of her men as they run by her, advancing up the beach, beating back the others.

 

Across the beach, though, she recognizes another figure. It’s Billy, and as he cuts down Dobbs with a snarl on his face, Silver takes out the sword at her waist. 

 

Billy looks up, then, and though they’re surrounded by bodies, Silver’s focus narrows in on him. He wipes his blade on his shirt, and then he comes after her.

 

Silver ducks below his blows, using her crutch to pivot as he tries to get her. She knows, from Flint’s tutelage, that his longer arms and height means that she either has to avoid him completely - not likely, now - or she needs to get in close. When Billy swings just a little too far, Silver uses all of her strength, and she tackles him around the waist. She manages to catch him off guard, and they both fall in the sand.

 

Underneath her, Billy looks nearly startled as she hits him in the face. He gets in a few blows, though now that she’s pinned him down, it’s mostly futile. One of his punches clips her just on the jaw, and it makes her see stars for a second -  and he uses her distraction to push her off him, going for the pistol she had knocked off him. 

 

Only Silver sees that coming, and by the time he points it at her, she has a gun trained on him. “Put it down,” she snarls, slowly rising.    
  
Billy, on his knees, doesn’t flinch. “I won’t let you - “

 

Silver shoots him in the hand, and Billy yells, the gun dropping to the sand.

 

Silver says, “It’s over.” 

 

  * ••



 

By the time has mostly ceased, Flint watches as they yank down the British flag that had been flying in the fort, replace it with hers. The black material billows in the wind, and for a moment, she lets herself bask in the victory, her eyes slipping closed as the wind buffets around them, kicking up sand as the battle dies down. 

 

Walking back into the town feels like coming home after a long voyage. Flint goes by the men, who are methodically hunting out any British regular or ex-pirate, until she finds herself at the steps of the governor's house.

  
This is where she told Silver to meet her. Flint looks up at the peeling paint of the doors, the tall windows on the second story. 

 

She had pictured Tommy and Martin here, once. In a better world, where they lived, where they were given the chance to make good on their visions - they could’ve lived here. 

 

But that is not the world she lives in. Flint pushes open the doors, breathing in the dust and faint scent of mold. The British had used it as a sort of central office, during their brief tenure, and almost immediately, Flint finds Silver. 

 

She’s standing at the top of the stairs, looking out the large bay windows. Flint comes up behind her, and Silver turns to her. 

 

She leans forward, never mind the men milling about on the ground level, and she places a kiss on the bridge of Flint’s nose, right where the cartilage had been broken at one point and didn’t heal correctly, leaving a small bump. “We survived.” 

 

Flint lets her eyes flutter shut, as Silver puts another kiss on her nose. “We did.” 

 

“We’re alive,” Silver says, punctuating this one with a kiss that skims her upper lip. “You’re alive.” 

 

“Yes,” Flint says, and then Silver takes her hand. She can’t lead her easily, not with the crutch to deal with, but Flint is patient, as Silver takes her to what must have been the governor's bedroom.

 

On the rumpled sheets, Silver lays down. “I was afraid,” she says, and then cuts herself off. Her hair spills out among the pale color of the fabric, and Flint leans over her, pressing a kiss to her mouth.

 

“We’re safe,” she repeats, and Silver closes her eyes. “We did it.” 

 

  * ••



 

“When I was a little girl,” Silver says then, “I dreamt of living in a castle one day.”

 

“A castle?” Flint shifts from where she’s doing the laces up on her shirt. The morning sun shines through the windows, and Silver lets her dangling foot sway just a little before sitting up. 

 

“A castle made of gold,” Silver says, and she traces the line of Flint’s back through her shirt, feels Flint inhale even through the material as her finger winds its way down her spine, as she tries to memorize each bump. “I would wake up every day in a room where the light cast it into the brightest jewel tones, and I would bathe in jewels as often as I pleased.”

 

“That doesn’t sound very comfortable,” Flint says, but her lips are quirked in a smile as she says it. It makes something in her chest yawn open at the sight, pull her closer until she’s pressed up snug against Flint’s warm back, and she never wants to let go. 

 

“Dreams rarely are,” Silver says, and she drops a kiss on the thick muscle of her shoulder. “I think I like this more, anyways.” 

 

Flint laughs again, the sound so light it makes something inside her ache even more. “I have to go talk to Vane,” she says, “If we are to bathe you in jewels, I do think we’ll need a place to store them in the meantime.” 

 

Silver presses another kiss to the back of the neck. “What if we just stayed in this bed, forever?” she suggests. “Don’t go, not yet.” 

 

“Someone has to rebuild this place,” Flint says gently, and she pulls away from Silver. “I’ll be back.”

 

The door closes. When she’s alone, Silver lets her hands fall to either side, empty over the sheets, before rising and getting dressed. 

 

  * ••



 

She nods to one of the men, and he opens the cellar door.

 

They’re in some abandoned house, far enough away from town so that none of the others will stumble upon them. That’s where they’ve decided to store the prisoners, after all, and the musky air is as unpleasant as any prison she’s ever been in. 

 

Silver descends into the cellar, where the air is colder, feeling thicker on her skin. There are a dozen or so men down here, but her eyes go immediately to the one she’s come for. 

 

Billy is chained to the wall, his eye swollen already. He looks up when she enters, and although his face tightens, he doesn’t say anything.

 

Silver uses the crutch to get over to him, hearing the wood tap against the stone. She waits until Billy looks up at her, and then she speaks. 

 

“I’m going to let you live,” Silver says conversationally, “Despite the fact you’ve betrayed your brothers on this island, and the ones who know you’re here are going to be disappointed that I’m not going to let them have the pleasure of killing you.” 

 

“Why?” Billy asks, then. “Why would you do that?” 

 

“Because you worked with Hornigold,” Silver says, and she nods towards one of the other men, chained a little down from him. “And I believe you have something I need.“

  
  


  * ••



 

As the sun sets, she knows where she’ll find Flint. 

 

She makes it down to the water, and as if she could hear her coming, Flint turns around. This time, there’s a hint of a smile on her face when she sees that it’s Silver, and the captain turns back around, knowing that Silver will make it down eventually.

 

Silver stares at the back of her head, and as the pain in her chest pulls and pulls, she knows what comes next. 

 

“There you are,” Flint says, and up close, it hurts Silver even more, but there’s no turning back now. “The wind’s holding up. We can send a sloop for Madi tonight, and in the meantime, we can take the Walrus to Port Royal for recruits - “

 

Silver says, “You’re not going to Port Royal.” 

 

“What do you mean?” 

 

“You’re not going to Port Royal,” Silver repeats, and as Flint searches her face, she says, “You’re going to leave Nassau.”

 

“Silver - “ Flint cuts off, and the confusion is just the first of many blows that Silver will have to stomach. “What have you done?” 

 

“I took a pardon for you,” Silver says, steeling herself, not that it can protect her much against betrayal across Flint’s face. “I let Billy go, in exchange for a pardon that he was carrying. I signed it for you.” She removes the paper, now, from her coat. 

 

“Give me that,” Flint orders, rough, and Silver lets her snatch the paper from her hand, lets her read it for herself. A pardon for Jane McGraw, otherwise known as James McGraw, otherwise known as Captain Flint. 

 

“I’ll just burn it.” 

 

“You can,” Silver says, “But there’s a copy that he has, and another one that’s on its way to the nearest British port.” 

 

The wind picks up for a moment, before dying back down. Not that it matters, when Silver’s feet are rooted in the earth, watching Flint realize what’s happening. 

 

“Do you know what you’ve done?” Flint’s voice is quiet, pained, and the expression on her face is awful when she looks up. “No one will ever sail under my flag again. Not when the British have a pardon with my name on it - “ 

 

“I know,” Silver tells her. “That’s why you’re going to leave Nassau.” She swallows. “You’re going to get on the next ship to anywhere you want, and you’re going to leave this place for good.”   
  


“ _ Leave _ \- “ Flint’s mouth works as she stares Silver down. “Why do this? I cannot fathom what would drive you to this - why get rid of me?“

 

Silver says, “Tommy is alive,” and she watches Flint flinch violently.

 

“Tommy is dead,” Flint says harshly. “She’s been dead for ten years.” She’s breathing heavily, now, and Silver wants to touch her, but she knows she can’t. “How  _ dare _ you try to use her name against me - “

 

“She is Max’s spy in Havana. She’s been there for a few years now, having been sent away from London following the death of her father at the hands of Captain Flint.” 

 

“Silver, I don’t know what you’re trying - “

 

“She’s alive,” Silver says, and Flint starts to shake, when Silver knows that she can see that she isn’t lying. “Max sent a letter to her to come here.” 

 

“How long - “ Flint cuts off, as if the sudden surge of emotion makes her bend over. Silver takes a step closer to her, but she thrashes, forcing Silver to stop. “Don’t - how long did you  _ know _ \- “

 

“Long enough,” Silver says, steadily. “Since you showed me the book.” 

 

If she thought the betrayal was bad, the look that’s on Flint’s face now - it’s indescribable. “Was any of it true?”

 

_ All of it _ . 

 

When Silver doesn’t answer, Flint steps forward - perhaps as if to strike her. Silver had come unarmed, and Flint knows this, as she takes another step, shoves Silver. “No,” she says, pushing Silver again. “No -   _ no _ .“

 

Silver lets her take her fill, until Flint collapses against her. She holds her then, listens to Flint’s sobs, and as they sink to the ground, Silver holds onto her tightly, and she thinks to herself,  _ That is what sacrifice does _ . 

  
  


  * ••



  
  


Flint sees the blonde hair first - only it’s not quite the same color, anymore, as the sun hits it just right and she realizes that it’s more white at this point. 

 

The woman stands a head taller than the women near her, and Flint doesn’t realize that she’s stumbling forward, pushing by the other people, until she stops at the end of the dock.

 

Tommy looks up, and she sees her.

 

Flint can’t move. She can only watch as the other woman taking hesitant steps towards her, getting closer - and for a moment, Flint wonders if this is the cruelest dream yet. The first time she’s seen Tommy’s face in ten years, and yet, the closer she gets, the more and more she convinces herself that this is a shade in front of her, the shock-stunned-surprise overwhelming her delicate features, something sent to torment her even more. 

 

Tommy stands in front of her, and Flint feels her knees buckle, but she’s doesn’t dare touch - 

 

“Your hair,” Tommy chokes out, half a laugh, half a sob, and Flint reaches up, runs her hand through the pieces, as Tommy’s hands flex at her sides, as if she wants to touch it - and her voice, it sends shivers down her spine - 

 

“I cut it all off,” Flint says in a daze, seeing how the sun illuminates Tommy’s face, the new lines there, an old scar running along her neck. Flint feels as though the sun has risen in her throat, the warmth filling her, light escaping and illuminating the space in front of her, giving her this.  

 

“Not all of it,” Tommy says, and she lifts her hand, tugs ever so gently at a piece of hair at her temple with shaking fingers, and the sensation makes Flint’s eyes flutter. “It’s like the dawn sky, rosy, like the color of a peach -  “

 

“ _ Tommy _ ,” Flint says. 

 

“No one’s called me that in years,” Tommy whispers. “I thought I would never hear it again.”

 

“I dreamt about you,” Flint tells her, watches as Tommy’s mouth parts, and she dares to reach out and touch her lower lip with a shaking thumb, lest reality strike and she would never get the chance to do so. Tommy’s lip is chapped, a little rough and dry under her touch,  _ she’s alive _ \- “But it was all wrong, I couldn’t ever quite see your face, or maybe I thought I couldn’t-” 

 

She breaks off for a moment, swallowing. “But I think some part of me knew that it couldn’t be true - that I would not be able to exist, if you were gone. Tommy -  _ how _ \- “

 

She’s not sure if she’s even saying sense, especially not when Tommy wraps her arms around her, presses her forehead against hers, and they both shudder into each other. “My love,” Tommy murmurs, and Flint closes her eyes. For the first time in years, she lets herself breathe, clutching onto Tommy’s back like she’s the only anchor Flint has to keep from drifting away, not wanting to say anything else, nothing that could wake her up from this.

 

“Don’t urge me to leave you or to turn back from you,” Tommy mumbles into her shoulder, and Flint presses herself closer to her, trying to occupy the same space so that they can never be separated by anyone, “Where you go I will go, and where you stay I will stay.”

 

She half-laughs, half-sobs into Tommy’s neck.

  
  


  * ••



  
  


She looks back up at the sea that stretches out as far as her eye can reach. If she stares for long enough, she can imagine ships dotting the horizon, but instead all she can see is blue, lonely and endless.

 

“The ship will be leaving soon,” Tommy says, having come up behind her. She pauses, and Flint sends her a tight-lipped smile, trying to be reassuring, but she can tell that Tommy sees right through her.

 

Just like Silver could. 

 

She hasn’t spoken to her, not since. The anger has receded to something duller, and she thinks that Tommy’s presence has helped cool her fury at being lied to in this way. She doesn’t seek Silver out, and Silver hasn’t come to her either. 

 

“There’s a fair wind today,” Flint says, the wind pushing by them. She takes Tommy’s hand in hers, then, and she smiles again, smaller but more genuine. 

 

“You don’t want to go,” Tommy says.

 

The truth is far more complicated - what does she want, now? 

 

“I have you, and that’s all I need,” Flint says. “I won’t let anything tear us apart - never again.” 

 

Tommy leads her down the hill, and as they board the ship, Flint looks over the skyline of Nassau: the proud walls of the fort being repaired, the steeple in the middle of town, the grass that goes as far as she can see. 

 

For a moment, she thinks she can see a small figure at the dock, as the ship pulls up its anchor. A figure watching the Eurydice depart, standing lone and too small to be recognized, but somehow, she knows. 

 

Flint turns her head away, and they leave Nassau. 

  
  


  * ••



  
  


Madi arrives a few days later. She holds her head up high as she walks onto the sands of Nassau, as Silver watches from the beach. 

 

Her eyes fall upon Silver, then, and Silver thinks that's when she realizes. 

 

Flint’s not at her side, and the expression on Silver’s face - one that has been there since she watched the Eurydice sail away -  has been stuck there, visible every time she looks in a mirror. 

 

Madi takes her in, and Silver knows she realizes. 

 

She’s not there when Madi is informed that Flint has left. She waits in the governor's bedroom, where she knows Madi will find her. 

 

The door open, and as she comes in, Silver rises. 

 

“She’s gone,” Madi says. “Why?”

 

Silver tells her everything. 

 

By the time she’s finished speaking, Madi has turned so that her back is facing her, gripping the back of a chair. 

 

“You did this all behind my back,” Madi says, her voice trembling. “You might have cost us this war, by removing the leader.” 

 

“It’s not over,” Silver says urgently, but when she steps forward, Madi whirls around. She raises her hands, stopping. “They have you. You have me - “

 

“I am going back to the island to speak with my mother.” Her words are calm, and that’s worse than the fury. “Then I will be trying to fix what you have broken - what I can fix.” 

 

“She’s gone, Madi,” and Silver lets the facade she’s been wearing ever since she had approached Flint on the beach crumble, finally - even though it hurts that much more when Madi doesn’t blink at the sight of it. “I sent her away, to save her - and God, hate me, but please, don’t do this - “

 

“This was not your decision,” Madi says, low. “This - I cannot turn my back on this. Not what I have promised my people, my mother, myself."

 

“Madi - “

 

She turns around again. “Leave me.”

 

After a moment, Silver does so. When the door closes between them, that’s when she hears the muffled sobs, and she squeezes her eyes shut, bites down on her hand so that she doesn’t make any noise before she leaves. 

  
  


  * ••



  
  


Late at night, Silver wakes up to hear the door open. She had found one of the empty rooms to fall asleep in, pulling the blankets around her despite the fact no number of layers is ever going to chase away the cold that seems to have seeped into her at this point.

 

“I love you,” Madi says after a moment, and Silver closes her eyes. “I think I always will. But this - this, I cannot forgive.”

 

Silver says, “I understand.” 

 

There’s a long pause, enough so that she wonders if Madi has left her. But instead, she says quietly, “I’m sorry that you do.” 

  
  


  * ••



  
  


Down by the water, her men are waiting. “Are we still going to Port Royal?” Dooley asks, his eye still bandaged. “Or are we waiting for Flint to come back?”

 

“Captain Flint has retired,” Silver says. “She has taken a pardon.”

 

The shock that ripples across the men is nearly palpable. “What?” Dooley says. 

 

“Flint took the pardon - “

 

“ - must have snuck away - “

 

“ - thought we couldn’t take them - “

 

Across the group, Dufresne and a few of the other men sneer. “Good riddance,” Dufresne says. “Knew she’d be the one to go back on her own words.” 

 

Silver ignores him. “We’re going to Maroon Island, where we will be ferrying some of them back,” she says. “Then we will be going to Tortuga, where we will be picking up recruits to fill our ranks once again before setting out to continue our mission.” 

 

“I have one,” Dufresne says, and Silver looks back at him. “Why are we following you?”

 

That makes her eyebrows shoot up. “Excuse me?” 

 

“I said, why do we follow you?” he says, a challenging step in her direction. “We’ve got Nassau back. I think we should hold a vote.” 

 

This makes another murmur go through the crowd, and very carefully, Silver makes sure her crutch is set down evenly on the ground. “Is that so, Mr. Dufresne?”

 

Rather than look at her, Dufresne begins to address the men. “We have been under the rule of tyrant captains for too long,” he says, “More focused on their own personal vendettas than earning you money, earning you respect as men - “

 

Silver has dealt with many men in her life - many difficult men. There had been the men at the brothel, too rough with her, the other girls. There had been the ones who had spit on her, begging in the streets. There had been men all of her life - so many men. 

 

She’s growing tired of dealing with them. 

 

The past few months have made the once-quartermaster hardened, but it’s made her into something inhuman. That, Silver knows, and so she waits, as Dufresne continues what she’s sure he thinks is an eloquent speech. 

 

“ - that way, we don’t follow another Captain Flint, who betrayed us, and who was a coward in the end,” Dufresne finishes, and now he looks right at her, sneering. She tightens her grip on her crutch. “Now, we elect a real captain, and we take what we want. We don’t need to follow anyone’s orders, especially not those of some crippled woman - “

 

Silver swings, and there’s a sickening crunch when the side of her crutch hits his head. 

 

Dufresne goes down like a stone in water, and he’s gasping on the ground as Silver hobbles forward, brings the end of the crutch down on his head, then again, then again. 

 

Each hit makes the men around her wince, but none of them move, as her last hit goes right through his skull, blood spilling out onto the dusty ground. There’s utter silence as her chest heaves, as the life dies from the man’s eyes. 

 

His body’s still twitching when she looks up, sees the horrified looks that the men are giving her. No one moves a muscle as Silver feels flecks of blood drying on her chin, as she looks around her, and no one looks her in the eye.

 

“Any more questions?” she rasps. 

 

She walks onto the Walrus, and they follow her. 

  
  


  * ••



  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**BOSTON, 1723**

  
  


The steady sound of the printer is an easy rhythm to lose oneself in, only now, the hum is interrupted by a loud clang. 

 

“Fuck,” Flint swears, pulling her sleeve free, and she inspects the material - now ruined by the ink, torn at one hem - with her lip curled. “For God’s sake, not again!”

 

“Is that my shirt?” Tommy says, her eyebrow raises as she brushes past her. “Or should I say, was?”

 

“This damned press,” Flint says grimly, shaking her sleeve as if that’ll get rid of the stain. “I’ll sew the tear once I figure out what’s making it ruin those papers.” 

 

Tommy glances at the pile of crumpled papers on the ground, the words smeared. “You owe me a new one either way.  _ Two,  _ actually - “

 

“Not when we’re still paying Mr. Robinson ten pounds a month for this,” Flint points out, peering at the mechanism that had caught her sleeve in the first place. “Not until you get paid once more for tutoring the Snyder children. And  _ especially _ not with your taste in clothing - “

 

“I’ll stop buying silk shirts when you stop loving how they feel against you,” Tommy says, and smiles knowingly when Flint sighs with renewed frustration - at the press. “Is it broken?” 

 

“Just a little,” Flint says, as Tommy comes back around. She starts inspecting the toggle. “She’s a stubborn machine, but if I can get a spare end for the impression screw, that could fix that unevenness - “   
  
“You know I love it when you talk to me about gears,” Tommy says, and she stands so close behind her that the hairs on the back of her neck rise, “But I daresay we won’t sell many more papers if we start wandering around the shop in the nude.” Her hands find their way to Flint’s hips. “That would be a surprise, wouldn’t, it, that Mister McGraw has rather more feminine virtues than anyone would have guessed.”

 

“Virtues,” Flint scoffs, letting Tommy spin her around, press lazy kisses to her jaw. “What virtues might that be, exactly?”

 

“Mm, but I am the humble wife of a printer,” Tommy says, leaving a lingering kiss on her chin, “I neither desire nor seek fame in this life. That, and I could become the jealous sort.”

 

Flint snorts, and Tommy kisses her mid-laugh, smiling against her mouth anyway.  They kiss for a few minutes, and the feeling stretches in her bones, a luxury despite the cold draft, the broken machine, the tiny smudges of ink that she’s probably leaving on Tommy’s jaw. Flint is forced to push her away again, laughing. “I have to go drop off another payment - no, really, I mean it - “

 

“Is that  _ absolutely _ necessary?” Tommy asks, and she tugs at Flint’s earlobe with her teeth, making her shiver. “Maybe he should dare come and interrupt me in this very important moment with my wife.” 

 

“He’d be a fool to even try,” Flint says, and Tommy steps back finally. “Need anything while I’m out?” 

 

“I’m going to try to put together those new pamphlets Mr. Carter sent over from Boston,” she says, and her eyes gleam. “Just wait until you read them.” 

 

“I’ll barricade the door for when the constable tries to break it down and arrest us,” Flint says, and Tommy shoes her out of the house. 

 

Winters in Boston are far colder than she remembered, and as Flint trudges down the street, only the sound of Tommy’s laughter keeps her warm. 

 

She drops off the payment, and then decides to stop off at the market to pick up something for dinner. Tommy had made some sort of mulled wine a few nights back, the spices strong enough to coat her tongue and bring a smooth heat that went beyond the alcohol, soothing her as they stayed up, drinking in silence. 

 

Between the two of them, they have a fair number of nights where sleep does not come easily. Flint has her demons, as does Tommy - and together, they find a balance between moving past them and learning how to recognize each other’s. It’s what they have to do.

 

Flint is trying to remember the exact taste, to try to think of the spices that it would take to replicate tonight -  and it’s then when she sees her. 

 

Silver’s hair is shorter, tied at the base of her neck. Although she’s in a dress, she has a leather coat draped over her that sets her apart just enough in the crowd so that Flint’s eyes jump right to her, the familiar gait as she stops. Faintly, Flint wonders if it’s the same peg leg she’s wearing, or if she’s found another one that fits better. 

 

Like she’s remembering the taste of the mulled wine, she’s suddenly brought back to that time, those precious memories that she hasn’t let herself think about for years - Silver’s eyes on her, her mouth against her neck, the salty smell of brine - 

 

Silver’s in front of her then, but she doesn’t say anything. Flint blinks, making sure she’s not hallucinating. She doesn’t know what to say, as the people push by them. 

 

Up close, she can see how there are a few streaks of grey in Silver’s hair, a few lines by her eyes. As Flint looks at her up and down, she thinks that for all that she imagined, in the earlier hours, the rare possibility of ever seeing Silver again - she didn’t picture it like this. 

 

She looks like a plume of smoke, like if Flint were to blow on her, she’d disappear into the air. Flint holds her breath. 

 

“I would’ve expected to see you in stays,” Silver says, finally. 

 

Flint shrugs, the gesture feeling too casual and yet, she’s stuck just looking at her. “I’m Mr. McGraw here.” The name brings with it a dull ache, just as it always does when she thinks about Martin, but she doesn’t think that any name she could ever go by would be free of such sorrow. “We have a printing shop.”

 

“Oh?” 

 

“I paint signs,” Flint says, unnecessarily, and then she says, “What are you doing here?” 

 

“Well,” Silver says, and Flint notices how she tugs her coat sleeves down further, presumably to cover tattoos - even though it does nothing to hide the piercings in her ears, or the way her eyes dart to the side every time an officer passes by. “Perhaps I was seeking out a printer.”

 

“There are printers in every city.”

 

“I like Boston.”

 

“You’ve been here?”

 

“No.”

 

“Silver,” Flint says then, and the use of her name makes the woman stiffen, her mouth part, “I can’t - I can’t do this.”

 

“I know,” Silver says. “I - I suppose I came here to apologize.”

 

_ Apologize _ . Flint’s not surprised, but she is struck by the curl of anger that come up at the presumption - “I haven’t been waiting for you.”

 

“I know that,” Silver says.

 

Flint wants to do something, but she can’t seem to make her hands work, especially not as when she takes a step forward, about to push Silver out of the way, Silver just catches her wrists mid-air. “I can’t do this,” she repeats,  as Silver holds her arms, not even bothering to wrest her arms away. Her fingers are warm on her wrists. “I can’t.” 

 

“I haven’t asked you for anything.”

 

“You already have,” Flint says.  _ I loved you once.  _ “You can’t just show up - and expect something.” 

 

“You left me your book,” Silver says, her voice strangely tight. “After everything- you left me it. Why did you do that?” 

 

She knows she did. She had thought about adding to Tommy’s inscription, only she had decided against it in the end. She had put it one of the side tables in the governor's mansion, where she had half-hoped it would be lost forever. “I didn’t need it anymore.”

 

“You’ve never needed anything,” Silver says, and Flint could laugh, only Silver’s still holding her wrists. “I needed you - and I pushed you away. For that, I know I have no right.” She hesitates, then, and Flint can still read her after all these years. 

 

_ I love you still _ , she thinks. 

 

Flint looks around them. They must be making quite a sight, yet people keep on passing them by, not bothering to get involved. She realizes that as they stand there, they’ve managed to carve out this space, the people going by like they know that this small piece of air and land - it’s theirs, in this moment. 

 

Silver finally lets go of her wrists, and when they fall right back to Flint’s sides, Silver looks like she’s expecting Flint to walk away and never look back. “The past few years,” Silver says, “I’ve done things - terrible things. The sort of things that follow me no matter how far I go inland. The sort of things that I cannot separate from.”

 

She’s spent a long time angry. She’s spent a long time upset, vindictive, jealous, relieved, and she’s learned how to deal with those. Now that it’s come to this, Silver standing in front of her, Flint doesn't know how to feel.

 

“The benefit of being a printer,” Flint says finally, “Is that we get much of the news.”

 

The faintest line appear in Silver’s forehead, and maybe she’s learned some things in the years that have gone by, for she doesn’t say anything. Flint says, “We’ve heard about the revolution happening. They say it started in the New World, that the daughter of slaves threatens the very fabric of civilization itself as she makes her way up the Atlantic. They say that she’s doomed to fail just under the immorality of her actions.” 

 

Silver says, “That is what they say.” 

 

Flint thinks about Tommy, back at the press, focusing on setting up the print for tomorrow’s newspaper. She thinks about the taste of wine on her tongue, the colors of the sea, the way that Silver still looks at her the same way after all these years.

 

She thinks about possibility. 

 

“I have to get back,” Flint says. “Tommy is a terrible cook, and I don’t want to come back to the house on fire.” 

 

Something slides over Silver’s expression. “Of course,” she says. 

  
  
“Your ship, it’s in the harbor?” Flint asks. 

 

“I came alone,” Silver says. “I’ll pick up work on another one in the morning.” 

 

She nods, once, and she starts to take a step. Her shoe makes the tiniest sound against the cobblestone, and her shoulder brushes Silver’s. The contact makes Silver move, ever so slightly, like she chases the sensation - and Flint thinks about second chances. She stops. 

 

Flint says, “You’ve never told me your name.”

 

Silver’s quiet for a long moment. “Would you like to know?”

 

“Walk with me,” Flint says. “Perhaps you can tell me on the way back.” 

**Author's Note:**

> •Tommy quotes a bunch from the Book of Ruth because: lesbian bible flirting ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯)  
> •there are certain historical fun facts sprinkled throughout that actually make sense, and others that don't quite work out (don't @ me i did it for the wlw)  
> •Boston marriages were more of a 19th-century thing but let's be honest, LJF in a dapper butch-lesbian getup making it a Thing, coming home after a long day of painting signs to her wife, was too good to pass up ([NPR wrote a thing once](https://www.npr.org/sections/npr-history-dept/2015/01/29/382230187/-female-husbands-in-the-19th-century))  
> •s/o to tumblr user runawaymarbles for the inclusion of the name of an actual "popular woman in Port Royal" (in the story that Silver tells to the men in part 4)  
> •is this a universe in which one day, Madi burns down London? therefore avoiding a lot of terrible subsequent history? after which she eventually retires in a sleepy town just outside of Boston to reunite with her wife and her wife's wife and her wife's wife's wife?  
> •it might be  
> •tommy meets silver, tries to smash a bottle of ink over her head (flint "don't, that's EXPENSIVE, dear-"), and then takes one look at the accumulation of tattoos and piercings and she goes, "hmm"
> 
> i'm @jamesbarlow!


End file.
